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“Mom,” I gasp, avoiding looking at her.
“What?” Her voice goes high. “You are a young widow with two kids. There is nothing wrong with you going out and having fun. You aren’t the one who…” She doesn’t say the rest of the words. “Now, go pack your stuff and get on the road.” She smiles and blinks away tears. “We will bring the kids home on Sunday.”
“Okay,” I agree, hugging her. It takes me about five minutes to pack my stuff, and the girls aren’t even sad to see me go. They both hug me and wave at the window when I pull out. I make it home in less time than I thought it would take me. I walk in and go straight to my bedroom, emptying my bag in the closet before looking for what I should wear. I don’t even know where I’m going, but I figure I should dress nice.
I pull up Dr. Mendes’s contact and send her a quick text.
Me: What does one wear on a date with her dead husband’s best friend? Asking for a friend.
I move my hangers, checking my options when she answers me back.
Dr. Mendes: Three red bows, one on each of your nipples, the other one on your vagina. If that is not an option, go for red. It screams have sex with me.
Me: Forget I asked you.
I put my phone in my back pocket before I grab a red pantsuit I’ve never worn. Holding it up, I then walk over to my bodysuits, grabbing a lace one that dips very low in the front and lower in the back. I put the outfit on my bed before rushing to the bathroom to take a shower and do my hair. I straighten my hair and part it in the middle, tucking it behind my ears before putting on some smoky eye shadow and mascara. I go back to get dressed before applying the lip gloss. I slide on the bodysuit first before I grab the pants that fit me perfectly, tight all the way down to my ankles. The bodysuit is sexy and shows off my cleavage just enough to make him want it but not enough that I’m giving away the farm. I put the jacket on to finish the look, pushing the sleeves up a bit before stepping into my black sky-high shoes that are not made for walking. They are made to put on, walk to the car, and then to the table. I apply my lip gloss and then take a picture of myself to send to Dr. Mendes.
Me: Went with the red option.
Dr. Mendes: I see no bows.
I laugh and put the phone in my handheld purse, walking downstairs and already regretting the shoes decision. I don’t have a chance to second-guess anything because the doorbell rings. I ignore all the butterflies in my stomach and walk to the door, hoping I don’t vomit all over his shoes. I pull open the door and I can’t help but smile when I see him, even though I want to stab his toe with the heel of my shoe for being a dick the other night. “Hey,” I greet him, ignoring how satisfied I am when his mouth hangs open.
“Um,” he stammers, and I stand here as he holds out a huge bouquet of roses for me, wrapped in white paper. “I got you these,” he says of the flowers, “and I got these for the girls.” He holds up his other hand that holds two smaller bouquets. “They told me they like flowers in their room.”
Now it’s my turn to stare at him with my mouth open. “Um, thank you. The girls are staying at my parents’ place until Sunday.” I reach for them with both my hands. “I’ll get them in water, and then we can go.”
“They have the little water things at the bottom,” he mentions, “so they are good until tomorrow.”
“Great.” I walk away from him to the kitchen and place them on the counter. He doesn’t follow me in, and when I walk back, I see that he’s staring at me with his hands in his pockets. He’s wearing dark navy-blue pants that I know have to be custom made because they fit him perfectly, showing off his huge thighs. A baby-blue button-down shirt that has three buttons at the top open, showing you his neck, and a navy cashmere coat.
“You look,” he says when I get close enough, “really fucking good.” I stand in front of him.
“Thank you.” I look down when he steps into my space.
He puts his hand around my waist, pulling me to him. “Thank you for giving me a chance,” he states softly, bending his head and kissing my cheek. He lets his hand fall from around my waist, opening the door for me to step out, and then closing it after him. He slides his hand in mine before walking down the steps toward his car. He opens the door for me, and I have to push down the disappointment that he didn’t try to kiss me. I watch him walk around to the driver’s side and get into the car. I look over at him, and I admit I’ve fallen for him. I just don’t know what to do about it.
“Where are we going?” I ask when he pulls out of the driveway.
“Just a little place I like. It’s good food and private enough that we won’t be bothered.”
I nod, looking out the window, trying not to look as nervous as I feel. We get to the restaurant, and he stops in front of the valet sign. The door is opened by a man as I step out and see Christopher walking around the back of the car. “The keys are in the car,” he tells the valet, grabbing my hand and pulling me away from the guy who nods at him. “Asshole.”
“What?” I ask, laughing.
“He was literally drooling over you,” he snaps, pulling open the door for me to walk through it, the heat hitting me right away. “I wish I could have walked in front and behind you because I’m pretty sure he was checking out your ass.”
“Christopher,” I say his name, laughing, “he was not.”
“Yeah, right,” he counters, walking in, “you didn’t see his eyes go right down your shirt.”
I gasp, putting my hand on said shirt. “We have a reservation for two,” he says to the hostess, who is wearing a black dress. I look around the dimly lit restaurant that has maybe ten to fifteen tables. All tables are round with four chairs with hanging chandeliers over each one, which have three crystal vases with water and floating candles, making the mood even more romantic.
The hostess pauses at a table in the corner, and Christopher stops to pull out my chair for me. “Thank you,” I say, sitting in the chair and then watching him shrug off his jacket and put it in the chair beside me, before pulling the chair from my other side out.
“Don’t you dare take off that jacket,” he mumbles when I watch him sit down. I’ve never felt more confident or sexier than I do at this very minute.
“Excuse me,” I say, pushing my chair away from the table, “I’m going to the restroom.” I turn, walking away from him, ignoring the stinging in my eyes. I spot the bathroom in the corner of the room, and when I push the door open, I’m glad no one is in there. I exhale and then inhale. I use the back of my thumb to wipe away the tear. Dr. Mendes’s words play over in my head. “He’s not here anymore, so you aren’t doing anything to him.”
