“I look…?” The lips he wanted to kiss turned into a frown.
That was unacceptable.
“You look like the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” There, that seemed about right.
The smile she gave him lit up her whole face. “You’re being a goober.” She glanced to the plastic box in his hands. “Is that mine?”
“Yeah.” He fumbled to open the box. “Sorry. I got distracted by that dress.”
“Do you want to come in?” She moved to let him through.
He stepped into her apartment, a line of sweat forming at his collar. Was it hot? Or was this just what it felt like when emotions took over?
Somehow, he managed to open the clear plastic corsage box. Carefully, he lifted the wristlet—a silver cuff that was all the rage with the seventeen-year-olds this year—and slipped it on her arm.
“It’s beautiful.” She held it up.
He’d used her roses and silver beads. It was simple.
But stunning.
It fit her perfectly.
“We should go, huh?” She tilted her head toward the door.
“Yeah.”
“Are you okay?” She held the back of her hand to his cheek. “You’re acting weird.”
“Fine. I’m fine. Let’s go.” Since her dress wasn’t made for the back of a Ducati, they’d agreed to walk the block to the retirement home. But he’d circumvented that and hired a stretch black Lincoln limousine.
She turned toward the sidewalk.
He grabbed her hand. “This way.” He led her to the street where the chauffer waited.
The limo came into view and she stopped. When he turned to her, she had two fingers pressed over her lips. “You rented a limo?”
“Itisprom night. And since you didn’t get to go to the last one, I figured you should get the entire Dvornakov experience.” Minus getting caught in a make-out session on his parents’ patio. Not to say he didn’t hope there would be lip action later in the evening. Just not the kind that involved any parentals barging in.
She was wearing heels this time, so her lips were right at his level. Which was ideal, because when she pressed them to his, he didn’t have to lean over, and she didn’t have to stand on her toes.
What he wanted to do was shove his hands in her hair and kiss her like she deserved. But she was all wrapped up like a present, and he didn’t want to ruin that. So instead he kept it the light brush that she instigated, his hands appropriately at her waist.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
The chauffer opened the limousine door and Jase helped her in, then slid onto the seat.
Brek had made him up a pitcher of spiked punch. He poured it into a champagne glass and handed it to her, the pink liquid pitching against the side of the glass as the limo pulled into the street.
“What’s this?” She held up the glass.
“This is step two in the ‘Dvornakov prom night’ experience. Spiked punch.” He poured himself a glass.
She clinked her glass against his and took a sip. She half coughed, half swallowed. “Holy shit, what’s in this?”
He had no idea. He took a slug of his own. Motor oil. Brek had not gone easy with the spikeage. “Brek made it. I think that’s a mixture of vodka, juice, and a fuck ton of rum. I believe it’s called jungle juice.”
A little nod toward the evening.
