“Okay, but seriously,” Cami said, leaning forward with her elbows on the table, slightly tipsy and adorably unguarded. “The worst date you’ve ever been on. Go.”
I groaned. “Do I have to?”
“Yes. I shared mine. Now it’s your turn.”
“Fine.” I refilled both our glasses. “Met her at a conference. She seemed great—smart, funny, shared interests. We went to dinner, and halfway through the appetizer, she started talking about her ex. And didn’t stop. For two hours.”
Cami winced. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. At one point, I excused myself to the bathroom just to get a break. Seriously considered climbing out the window.”
“Did you?”
“No, but it was close.” I grinned at her. “Your turn. Most embarrassing moment.”
“Oh god.” She covered her face with her hands. “I have so many.”
“Pick the best one.”
She peeked through her fingers. “I was styling a client for a gala in a very high-profile, very expensive dress. I was using double-sided tape to make sure everything stayed in place, and I accidentally stuck the dress to myself. When she moved away, it ripped a huge chunk of fabric.”
“No.”
“Yes, Sir. I had to completely restyle her with thirty minutes to spare and no backup dress.”
“What did you do?”
“Found scissors, turned it into an intentional slit, added a statement belt, and convinced her it was avant-garde.” She dropped her hands, grinning. “She got more compliments on that dress than any other outfit I’d styled for her.”
“That’s not embarrassing. That’s genius problem-solving.”
“It was mortifying at the time. But yes, Sir, it worked out.”
We kept trading stories. She told me about her fashion blog, about difficult clients and wonderful ones, about the satisfaction of helping someone feel beautiful. I told her about learning carpentry from my father, about the first piece of BDSM furniture I’d ever built, about the strange satisfaction of creating something beautiful and functional.
“Show me,” she said suddenly.
“Show you what?”
“Your hands.” She reached across the table, and I gave her my right hand without thinking.
She turned it over, examining my palm, tracing the calluses with gentle fingers. “You can tell you work with your hands. They’re strong.”
“Comes with the territory.” My voice was rougher than I intended.
“I like it.” She looked up at me through her lashes. “I like that you create things. That you build.”
“What else do you like?” The question came out before I could stop it.
She bit her lip, considering. The wine had flushed her cheeks, making her eyes brighter, her guard lower. “I like the way you laugh. The way you make everything feel less scary. The way you looked at me today when I was on Starling.”
“How did I look at you?”
“Like you were proud of me.” Her thumb brushed across my palm. “Like I’d done something incredible even though I was just sitting on a horse.”
“You did do something incredible. You faced a fear and conquered it.”
“Because you made me feel safe enough to try.”
