"I am breathing."
"You're spiraling."
"I spiral when I'm stressed, you know this."
"I do, which is why I'm here." I cross to the bathroom door, examining the dress. It's purple. Deep eggplant shade, like she said. "Put it on. Show me."
She disappears into the bathroom, and I sit on the edge of her bed because standing feels too formal, and I need something to do with my hands.
Bad idea. Sitting on her bed.
This is where she sleeps. Where she was last night after I left her in the hallway, flushed and breathless.
Last night was for show. The kiss on the dance floor, the kiss at her door. All for show.
Except there was no one in the hallway.
Just a thought, do ghosts count?
No one, no sentient being anyway, was watching when I pressed her against the doorframe and kissed her the way I've been wanting to for years. When she made those sounds that went straight to my cock. When I got so hard, I had to shuffle away.
She noticed. I know she noticed.
"Okay, don't laugh," she says from the bathroom. "I'll hate you forever if you do."
"I make no promises."
She emerges, and?—
Jesus Christ.
The shade might not be her best color, but she still looks … wow!
The bodice fits tight across her chest, showing curves I've spent years trying not to notice. The waist is loose, bunching weird, but somehow the color makes her eyes look darker, greener. I forget what I'm supposed to be judging here because if I'm being honest, Liz could wear a burlap sack, and she'd still outshine everyone. In my eyes.
She grimaces, tugging at the fabric. "See? Sad eggplant."
"You don't look sad. More like angry. An angry eggplant."
"I hate you so much, Dean."
"Okay, that was a bad joke. You look..." How do I say beautiful without giving myself away? How do I tell her she probably looks so much better naked anyway? "The dress is fine. You make it work."
She turns, showing me her back. "I can't reach the zipper. Can you...?"
That's when everything goes sideways.
The zipper's only halfway up, and there's a lot of bare skin between the fabric and her shoulders. A lot. Enough to make a man lose his mind.
My fingers find the zipper pull, and I accidentally brush her spine.
She goes still.
"Sorry. Cold hands."
"It's fine."
I tug on the zipper and pull up. Each inch draws my focus closer to her back—her smooth skin, the curve of her spine, a small freckle near her left shoulder blade I've never noticed before.
