An old friend I’d once promised forever to. An old friend whose smile still made my heart skip. An old friend I’d divorced because loving him hurt too much.
“He’s going to be here in half an hour. Y’all need to get out of here.”
“You’ll be fine.” Jess wrapped me in a quick hug. “Just remember to breathe.”
Allie squeezed my shoulders. “And remember that you look incredible. Like, ‘make a grown firefighter weep’ incredible.”
Meghan snapped her fingers suddenly. “Wait, I almost forgot the most important part.” She fixed me with a serious look. “You need to wear the sexy satin bra and panty set. The fancy one.”
“What? No!” I spluttered. “I’m not sleeping with Rhett.”
“So not the point.” Meghan rolled her eyes. “You know that, and I know that, but Rhett will remember that sexy underwear and be tortured.”
“How would he even know what underwear I’m wearing?” I demanded.
“He won’t,” Meghan explained patiently, as if talking to a child. “But you’ll know. And you’ll carry yourself differently.”
“She’s right,” Allie chimed in. “The sexy underwear will make you feel more confident. It’s like armor, but way prettier.”
“Armor,” I repeated flatly.
“Silky, lacy armor,” Jess confirmed. “Trust us on this.”
I glanced at the clock. Twenty-five minutes. “Fine. Whatever. Just go, all of you.”
They filed toward the door, each giving me one last hug. Allie was the last to leave, pausing in the doorway.
“Hey, Pep?”
“Yeah?”
“No pressure, but he never stopped loving you. Anyone with eyes can see it.”
Before I could respond, she closed the door behind her, leaving me alone with her words echoing in my head.
I did kind of like the idea of Rhett being tortured.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I marched myself back to my bedroom—the room I’d redecorated into a feminine oasis after my divorce—and yanked open my lingerie drawer.
I stood staring at the black lace set, memories flooding back before I could stop them. The last time I’d worn this… Rhett had just returned from a multi-day training exercise. I’d greeted him at the door wearing nothing but this and a smile. We hadn’t even made it to the bedroom.
My fingers traced the delicate scalloped edge of the bra. The way his eyes had darkened when he saw me. How his calloused hands had felt against my skin as he’d backed me against the wall. The heat of his mouth. The desperate way he’d whispered my name.
A flush crept up my neck, warming my cheeks and spreading lower. My body remembered his touch with embarrassing clarity.
“This is a terrible idea,” I muttered, but still found myself reaching for the set.
As I slipped into the lingerie, my skin prickled with awareness. The satin felt cool and smooth, the lace edges just tight enough to remind me they were there. Every movement became more deliberate, more sensual.
I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror and barely recognized myself. The woman staring back looked confident, desirable. She looked like someone who knew exactly what she wanted.
That was the problem. I was starting to remember exactly what I wanted, and it was six feet of stubborn firefighter with hands that knew every inch of me.
“No,” I said firmly to my reflection. “No, no, no.”
This was supposed to be dinner. Closure. Not whatever my body was currently suggesting.
I yanked open my drawer again, reaching for my practical cotton underwear. Then stopped. Who was I kidding? I’d already crossed some invisible line just by agreeing to this date. The lingerie wasn’t the problem.
