She tilted her head to one side. “Girl, you have too much personality for black sequin. Even if it makes your tits looks great.”
That made no difference. My tits looked great in everything. Like all Gibbs women who had come before me, I had been blessed with perfect breasts.
It was the night of the charity benefit, and I was still scrambling for something to wear, even after spending a fortune at four separate plus-size boutiques. I hadn’t worn a gown since my senior prom, and even then, Granny Gibbs had ended up sewing my dress herself. Plus the matching elbow-length gloves I’d insisted on having to complete the look.
Spoiler alert, they had not.
June and I had been at this since after breakfast. She’d offered to lend a helping hand—quite literally because there was no way I could zip myself in and out of some of these bad boys—and then sat back while I modeled dress after dress.
Not quite thePretty Womandressing room montage I had envisioned—too much sweat and not enough boob tape—but still.
“I don’t know.” I stripped off the mermaid style dress, careful not to catch my hair on the sequined bodice. Seven of these dresses were getting returned first thing Monday morning, and I expected a full refund.
I tossed it onto my bed with the others.
“Maybe you should just go dressed likethat.”
I didn’t have to look down to know what she was talking about. The gowns weren’t the only thing I had splurged on for tonight’s gala. The lacy black lingerie set had cost almost as much as my first car.
And it was worth every penny.
The strapless corset hugged my curves better than any tummy control shapewear I had ever worn, and it looked ten times better. The matching panties, barely held together by a few straps of ribbon on either hip, did next to nothing for coverage. But they sure did make me feel delicious.
Dangerous, naughty. A gift waiting to be unwrapped.
“I think Pink would appreciate it,” she said around a wink.
Oh, I had no doubt he wouldloveit.
Especially the stockings—a silky pair of opaque thigh-highs that made me feel like liquid sex. A black-and-silver, floral pattern adorned the tops of each stocking, and the garter belt resting just above my hips held them in place.
But I had no intention of letting Jared Pink beneath my skirt.
Again.
Our conversations had been limited at best and awkward at worst since last week’s couch session—talk aboutsectionaltension—but I chalked that up to our busy schedules more than anything else. To his credit, Jared had never brought up what had happened between us, and I was thankful for that. Mostly because even after a week, I still didn’t know what to say about it myself.
While he was busy leading his team to victory and, in turn, clinching the top seed in the playoffs, I’d had my best sales week in over a year. Though, if I was being honest with myself, Jared might have had something to do with that, too.
Smutty Buddies wasn’t the only business that had seen an uptick in sales. Brock Heller’s full interview with him had dropped earlier this week, and as a lifelong Rose City resident, it was safe to say that the town had decided to adopt Jared Pink as their own. He had talked more about his favorite local haunts than himself or his Cy Young nomination.
That was a pattern of his: shedding a light on others’ talents and passions and then stepping in to help actualize them. He didn’t freely offer details abouthispassions or accomplishments—in fact, he often downplayed them—and aside from a few of our conversations, he never talked about his family.
“Have you talked since . . .”
June trailed off, lifting her brows up and down.
“Since I dry-fucked the shit out of him?” I finished for her. “We’ve texted, but that’s about it.”
“And?”
“And nothing. It was a mistake, a momentary lapse in judgment.”
“Doesn’t have to be,” she muttered under her breath.
“I heard that.”
“Good, I wanted you to.”
