“Y ou told me this was casual!”
I hold in my grin and take her in. The flushed cheeks and wide eyes.Finally. Finally, I get
that date. If it were up to me, we would have had it right after that night, the night everything changed.
But Bree and Cara stole her away. Then we had family shit, and before I knew it, it was Monday. That
was the start of the week from hell. We were so busy getting ready for a big auto show overseas that
we ended up working late with the team every night. So now, finally, a week after I asked her out, I’m
getting my date.
I glance down at my cream cashmere sweater and pressed slacks. “This is casual.”
“No,” she says, waving her hands up and down her outfit. “This is casual. See, jeans. Regular
sweater. Plain old coat. Nothing I’m wearing is worth more than a rent payment. Why is everything
you own so expensive?”
“Because I have a lot of money,” I say, winking. She scrunches her face up.
“But do you have to spend it all on clothes?”
I shake my head and let my smile break free —something that happens a lot around her— and
laugh. “As a proportion of our income, I’d argue that your outfit is significantly more expensive than
mine.”
She rocks back on her heels, frowning as she considers that. I take the time to admire her flushed
cheeks —naturally rosy this time, thank god-- and the way her lips purse as she thinks.
She taps her finger on her lips. “So getting a ketchup stain on that sweater would be the equivalent
of me spilling on a raggedy t-shirt from the thrift store?”
I frown, imagining the splash of red on my pristine sweater, and she dissolves into giggles. It’s the
best sound. Before, she was so reserved around me that I only got to hear it second-hand. But now,
having her warmth and laughter directed at me just tightens that hold she has on me. She’s like a
spider, wrapping me tighter and tighter in her web, and I can’t bring myself to mind.
Not even a little bit.
“You really like dressing up,” she says, shaking her head, smiling.
I open my mouth to tell her that, yeah, I do. But I can’t. Because I don’t think that’s true. Frowning,
I tug her out of her apartment and guide her to the elevator. “I actually don’t know. I’ve been dressing
this way since I was a teenager.” I catch her look and clarify. “It wasn’t Cashmere then, but I always
made a point of looking sharp.”
