I remember, suddenly and vividly, that I am wearing plain black underwear.
Plain.
Practical.
Fine.
Nothing embarrassing, exactly.
But not the blue lace.
Not the lingerie sitting in the box in my bedroom, because I had not thought I would end up here tonight when I got dressed this morning.
Well.
That is not entirely true.
I had thought about ending up here.
I had just been trying not to admit it.
The thought makes me groan softly, more in frustration than pleasure.
Mario pulls back slightly. “What?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrow.
I hate how well he already knows that means absolutelynotnothing.
I blow out a breath, nervous and overheated and apparently incapable of leaving bad ideas alone.
“I was just thinking that if I had known dinner at your house was on the agenda, I might have made a different wardrobe choice.”
His gaze drops slowly down my body.
My skin heats under my practical work attire, under the perfectly boring bra and panties beneath it.
“A different wardrobe choice,” he repeats.
“It was a joke.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
My face burns. “Fine. It was a nervous comment disguised as a joke.”
His hand slides to my hip. “About the lingerie.”
I wish the floor would open.
“Yes.”
He studies me for a moment, and I cannot read his expression.
Then he says, “The blue set was not the only option.”
I blink.
