I have been thinking about him all week. That’s the problem.
Dark eyes. Broad shoulders. Low voice. His hand wrapped around mine, holding on like he didn’t want to let go. And the late-night thoughts that have me reaching for my vibrator.
“Oh, my god.” Joanie sits up, eyes wide. “You’re blushing. You’re actually blushing. Tessa Hart, who once gave a twenty-minute presentation on orgasm equality without breaking a sweat, is blushing about a man.”
“I’m not—the curling iron is hot.”
“Lie to yourself if you want, but you can’t lie to me.” She comes to stand behind me, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “This isn’t fake for you anymore, is it?”
I set down the curling iron. My hands are trembling slightly, which is ridiculous. I don’t get nervous about dates. I’m the one who coaches other people through date anxiety.
But right now I feel like a woman in way over her head.
“I don’t know what it is,” I admit. “We’ve exchanged maybe twenty text messages. I know he works in security, has a sister who meddles, and doesn’t like Moscow Mules. That’s it. That’s the sum total of my knowledge about Archie...”
I trail off, realizing I don’t know his last name.
“You don’t know his last name,” Joanie says flatly.
“It hasn’t come up.”
“You’re going to a Valentine’s Day gala with a man whose last name you don’t know, wearing the dress you’ve been saving for ‘the one,’ and you want me to believe this is casual?”
When she puts it like that, it sounds insane. I give dating advice for a living. I know exactly how many red flags are waving in this situation.
But I also know how it felt when he looked at me. Like he was happy with what he saw, not making a list of things he could tolerate.
“I know it’s crazy,” I say softly. “I know everything about this breaks my own rules. But Joanie... there’s a spark between us. I’d rather find out I was wrong than spend the rest of my life wondering what if.”
Joanie’s expression softens. She squeezes my shoulders, her reflection meeting mine in the mirror. “Then let’s make sure you knock him dead. Where’s your good lipstick?”
The doorbell rings,and I give myself one last look in the full-length mirror.
The soft pink silk hugs my curves, and the neckline is elegant but daring. My hair falls in soft waves over my shoulders. The makeup Joanie helped with is subtle but sexy—smoky eyes, nude lips, a hint of shimmer on my cheekbones.
My heels click against the hardwood as I cross to the door. My heart is pounding. I take a breath, paste on what I hope is a confident smile.
I open the door, and my brain simply stops functioning. Archie is in a tuxedo, and the black jacket stretches across his broad shoulders as if it were custom-made for him. His dark hair is styled, swept back from his forehead. His jaw is freshly shaved, emphasizing its strong line.
He’s gorgeous. Dangerously, unfairly, breathtakingly gorgeous.
He’s also tugging at his collar like he’s uncomfortable.
“Hi,” I manage.
He doesn’t answer. His eyes travel from my face down the length of the dress and back up again, slow and thorough. When they reach my face again, they’ve gone darker, intent.
“You look...”
I wait. The silence stretches.
“Good,” he finally says, voice hoarse. “You look good.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Good? I spent three hours getting ready for ‘good’?”
“Incredible.” The word comes out. “You look incredible. I’m having trouble remembering how to talk.”
My face flushes. I step closer, close enough to smell his cologne.
