Page 235 of The Wright Man

That got her. Her whole face lit up, and I swear the damn room got brighter with it.

"A date?" she teased, eyes dancing. "You tryna wine and dine me now? Be romantic or whatever?"

"Something like that," I said. "Just go get pretty for me."

She grinned, already bouncing on her toes. "Where are we going? What do I wear? Is this like casual cute or 'take a whole bath and shave above the knee' fancy?"

"It's a surprise," I said, giving her a knowing look. "But yes, go ahead and shave."

"Ooooh, nasty," she giggled, already turning toward the hallway. "Long dress or short? You tryna coordinate colors? You wanna match?"

I didn't answer. Just smacked her ass again as she turned, earning a squeal and another string of empty threats.

"Those fucking hurt!" she called out from the hallway. "You keep putting bruises on my ass, I'm filing a complaint with HR."

"I am HR," I called back.

"And that's exactly why this workplace is toxic!"

I shook my head, grinning as the sound of the shower kicked on. She was still babbling—half about dress options, half about what lipstick made her look like "a rich bitch who eats men for sport."

I showered in the guest bathroom. Not because mine wasn't available—but because I didn't trust myself to get in that shower with her. Not tonight. Not with how much I wanted this night to mean something. I needed to keep my damn hands to myself for at least a couple hours.

The hot water hit my skin like clarity, washing away the heat she left behind from just existing too close to me. I dried off and stood in front of the mirror for a second, palms flat on the counter. My heart beat steady, calm... but my dick was already plotting on how to fuck this whole timeline up.

Nope. Chill, bro. One thing at a time.

I had something planned for that later.

I got dressed slow, intentional. Burgundy collared shirt, crisp and open just enough to show the gold chain she bought me the Christmas before she married her ex piece of shit. Black dress pants, tailored to my build. Clean black dress shoes. My watch—the one she said made me look like I had secrets and a six-figure income. I sprayed on a little cologne, ran my hand over my beard, and stepped into the living room, waiting on her.

And waiting.

And waiting.

"I know you not in there trying on your whole closet," I called out, flopping onto the couch. "The place gon' close before you decide on a damn shoe."

Her voice rang out from the bedroom, sweet and full of bite. "If I'm takin' long, that means it's worth the wait."

I smirked and leaned my head back, closing my eyes. "We'll see."

A few minutes later, I heard the door creak open.

I looked up and promptly forgot how to breathe.

She stood in the hallway, glowing like a warm goddamn dream. Cream-colored dress hugging every curve like it was tailored by angels. It had a plunging neckline that left nothing to the imagination and a thigh-high slit that was doing unspeakable shit to my blood pressure. Her gold heels caught the light with every step, and bangles jingled soft around her wrists.

But it was the necklace that stopped me—the gold "A" I gave her back when we were kids with dreams and hormones.

She still had it. Still wore it.

Her hair was wild and free, curls bouncing like they had something to say, and her eyes sparkled like she knew she was fine as hell.

"Shit." I stood up slowly, eyes raking over her like I was trying to memorize every inch. "I damn near don't wanna let you leave."

She gave me that slow, satisfied smirk she gave when she knew exactly what she was doing. "You don't get to get me all excited for a date and then pull a 'never mind' just 'cause I showed up fine as fuck. You shoulda planned for this."

I chuckled, eyes drifting down her frame again. "I should've planned to be disrespected by that slit?"