Perfect. See you in 20.
Twenty minutes.
Perfect. Just enough time for me to get dressed, throw on some makeup, and talk myself back off the ledge. This is fine. I’m fine.
I pull on jeans and an oversized cream sweater that makes me feel approximately three percent less like a disaster. Hair in loose waves because I tried for “effortlessly pretty” and landed somewhere around “gave up.”
My party dress hangs on the back of my bedroom door—a simple black sheath, January-appropriate, elegant. I bought it on clearance three years ago, and it’s been to exactly two events. I think you’d call that mint condition.
I grab my tote and shove in the essentials: party dress, party shoes, makeup bag, deodorant, Tylenol, double-sided tape, scissors, pliers, glue gun—hey, you never know what you’ll need in an emergency. I’ll be darned if Maya’s party is a flop all because I forgot my glue gun.
I scramble through the apartment in search of my keys, flipping over piles of unpaid bills and zero-balance bank notes.
No wonder Brody offered me money. Wow.
My phone buzzes again.
Brody
Outside.
Oh.
Okay.
This is happening.
Deep breath. Coat. Bag. Stairs. Oh—I spot my keys and toss them into my tote. I’m ready.
The Shelby idles at my curb.
Brody gets out when he sees me. Opens my door.
He’s wearing dark jeans, a sky-blue Henley under a black jacket, and he looks?—
Well, shoot. He looks downright delicious. When I catch my reflection in the window, I half expect to find myself with full-on Looney Tunes heart-shaped eyeballs. I mean…Awooga!
He looks like every book boyfriend I’ve ever fallen for. A real-life rom-com hero. He even rests an elbow on the door, leaning in that perfectly bookish-boy way.
“Morning,” he says.
“Hi.” Honestly, I’m surprised I managed that. “Thanks for picking me up.”
“Of course.” He steps back, waits until I’m settled before closing my door and walking around to his side.
Very gentlemanly. Very “contractually obligated to appear like a good boyfriend” of him.
Oh, Chloe. We’re enjoying this too much already.
The inside of the car smells like leather and light cologne. It’s clean too. No crumbs in the seat cracks, no wadded-up McDonald’s wrappers between the chairs…I feel underdressed just breathing in here.
“So,” Brody says, pulling away from the curb, one lean arm passing over the other as he turns onto the street. “Ready for today?”
“Absolutely not.” Ope! Chloe! That was an inside thought.
He laughs. The warm, real sound does something terrible to my heart and fades too quickly. “Yeah, me neither.”
I glance at him. His shoulders are relaxed, a slight smile touching his lips. But his jaw’s tight. Hands gripping the steering wheel a little too hard.
