I go to my room. Close the door.
I could wear the Bruins shirt.
I do not wear the Bruins shirt.
I dig through my drawer until I find the push-up bra—thegood one, dark gray, underwired, the one the bridesmaids and I shopped for when Project Honeypot was in place.
I put it on. Tighten the straps and voilà! Instant deep valley-cleavage.
Then the gray zip-up hoodie—soft, slightly oversized, the zipper drawn to a point that is technically decent and absolutely not innocent.
A light, easy skirt—completely impractical for February in Boston, but the apartment's warm enough and I'm not planning to go outside.
Hair down. Nothing else.
I look at myself in the mirror.
Confident? Thirty percent. Terrified? Sixty percent. Horny? One HUNDRED percent. The math doesn’t add up, but it doesn’t matter, my brain is committed to kinky chaos and is not taking questions.
I sit on the bed. Position the laptop. Angle the screen. Check the light. Check again.
8:00.
I press call.
He answers on the second ring. Jacket on, slightly distracted—the version of West that exists in his own space when I'm not on his screen. Low light behind him. Expensive furniture. The well-furnished backdrop of a man who owns his world entirely.
Then he sees me. The distraction disappears like smoke.
“Hey.” The single syllable drops an octave. Whatever he was thinking about before dissolves.
"Hey." I tuck one leg under me, shift slightly. The zipper gap moves. Not much.
Enough.
"Bad time?"
"No."
He's very still.
His eyes are doing that thing—the one where he's choosing where to look and the choice is costing him something.
Deliberate eye contact. Aggressive, conscious eye contact.
The eye contact of a man who is aware that his gaze wants to go somewhere else and is refusing to let it.
Oh, this is DELICIOUS.
I ask him about how much snow they’re getting. He answers nonchalantly.
I aska follow-up and pretend to yawn… like I’m having a completely normal conversation.
Internally, I’m beside myself.
"Hold on—"
I reach behind my laptop, to the shelf just above it.
