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As she stood, fresh from her shower, in a pair of panties and no bra, staring at her closet, she knew which part of her was winning. He made her want to be risky, be daring. And he was right—his being at Mitch and Maddie’s had upped the excitement quotient by a thousand.
Why did he have to be so hot and infuriating?
She blew out an exasperated breath, tried to grab a pair of jeans, and at the last second veered to the left, picking out a flirty, sexy Bohemian-style white sundress.
She’d bought it a couple of weeks ago, but hadn’t worn it. Nor had she tried it on. But it was perfect for tonight. Casual, and revealing, but it didn’t look like she was trying too hard.
Praying it fit, she slipped it over her head, and the second she turned to the mirror she was in love. It was in a wrinkled cotton fabric that fell high on her thighs, with a jagged eyelet hem. The spaghetti straps flattered the curve of her shoulders before the dress dipped down, scooping low across her cleavage. It looked awesome with her newly tanned skin. She paired it with a thick tan woven belt and UGG flip-flops to maintain the casual vibe.
More than satisfied with the dress, she spent the next thirty minutes working her hair into an “I’ve just been to the beach” mess and applying light makeup that highlighted her eyes, cheekbones, and mouth while looking like she barely had anything on.
At the end, she surveyed her results. Sometimes the gods smiled upon you, and this was one of those times.
Okay, so she wasn’t wearing a bra . . . but how could she with her dress?
It didn’t mean anything.
She was just being fashionable. She was a very fashionable woman.
Really.
She glanced at her clock. It was six, and she was right on time. Her stomach did a little dance, which she ignored. She was cool, not excited. Not brimming with anticipation.
She walked to the front of the house and out the door, turning to lock it before swiveling around to find him already waiting for her, watching.
She took two steps and froze, her throat going dry.
Holy mother of God.
She wasn’t religious, but she’d gone to Catholic school all her life, and she resisted the urge to make the sign of the cross and pray for strength.
She was going to need it.
He stood, wearing worn jeans, a black T-shirt, and his aviators and leaning against a kick-ass black classic Ford Shelby Mustang.
Sophie almost had an orgasm on the spot.
She could only stare at him, looking like a total badass, hotter than any man she’d ever laid eyes on.
And he stared right back.
While she couldn’t see behind his sunglasses, she could practically feel his long once-over. Heat and chemistry shimmered along the air, and somehow she finally managed to make her way down the stairs.
Out of all the cars, why did he have to have this one? Muscle cars were her weakness. Well, that and tattoos.
Hell, everything about this man was her weakness.
She stepped next to him and rubbed the chrome. He had a classic Mustang and a big, powerful Harley. This man was sent from hell. Voice awed, she said, “It’s so pretty. I can’t believe you own one.”
He smiled down at her. “1967.”
She shivered. “That’s the best year.”
He shook his head and sighed.
She licked her lips. “What?”
“Do you have to be perfect?” The question came out thick, shivering down her spine.
