“Same to you,” I said as he rushed through his goodbyes.
He disconnected the call without saying anything about benefits or bras or purple.
Maybe he had an audience.
But he cares enough that he doesn’t want you to face the Douchecanoe alone.
Eh, that was Malone. He would’ve done that for anyone.
Chapter 26
By the time Tuesday evening rolled around, I was ready. Buffed, polished, shaved—you name it. My purple dress fit like a dream and concealed the same purple bra Malone had seen once before. I was even wearing the matching underwear, but I’d given careful consideration to not doing so—it would’ve been so much fun to see the look on his face if I stuffed it in his pocket.
Despite his accounting adventures, he had finagled a ticket for Nana, so I wore Converse underneath the dress. Not as sexy as the strappy sandals, but so much more comfortable.
And my sneakers were good for pacing, which was what I was doing because it was five thirty-five, and I hadn’t heard from or seen Malone since a text the night before.
Brené Brown watched me pace from her perch on top of the love seat, her tiny, fuzzy head tracking my motion as I paced toward the patio door and then back toward the apartment door.
Finally, the doorbell rang.
“You be good,” I said to the cat before turning my attention to the door.
Malone walked in, his hair still wet from the shower. “Stark, could you please help me with this torture device?”
“Can’t. It goes against my religion to dress you.”
He arched an eyebrow, the one over his blue eye. “The sooner you get me dressed, the sooner you can get me undressed.”
“Well, when you put it like that,” I said as I stepped closer. When I breathed in his vanilla bourbon chai cologne, my fingers fumbled, but I recovered enough to fix his bow tie.
“Not usually a suit kind of guy,” he said as I straightened it.
“You look awfully good in a suit, but you also look good in sweats. I’d say you’re very versatile in that way, Malone.”
“Well, let me take a look at you, then.”
I stepped back and curtsied. “It’s your favorite color.”
He made a sound that wasn’t quite a word, more an appreciative grunt of choked admiration.
“And it has pockets!” I said with a twirl.
He laughed. “What is it with women and pockets?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t know. You’ve always got pockets. They even put pockets in some swim trunks, as if that isn’t an invitation to accidentally take one’s wallet and phone into a pool.”
“You’re right about—are those tennis shoes?”
I stood up straight, prepared to defend my footwear choice. “They’re sparkly. And sparkly means fancy.”
I waited for him to complain, but instead he shook his head in amusement before pointing at the puzzle piece on the wall. “See? Intriguing.”
By this time, Brené Brown had come to inspect her favorite human. Malone bent and scooped her up.
“Stop it! You’re going to get cat hair all over your suit,” I said.
“But she’s so cute.”
