“The one with the window!”
“That one’s so cute!”
“I know, right?”
“Wait. I thought you didn’t get that one.”
“Turns out, the people who outbid me had issues with the mortgage and backed out before the papers were signed. I’m buying my own freaking house!”
Meg is still beaming as she retrieves our lunch from the fridge—two pepperoni rolls, courtesy of the new café that opened down the street.
“We should go out to celebrate.” The offer isn’t entirely selfless. If I don’t get out of my apartment, I’m going to do something stupid like jump my roommate. Before I can explain all that, the Gray Ghost steps into the breakroom.
Meg claps her hands beneath her chin, startling the poor Ghost so bad he fumbles his gray coffee mug.
“Bowling?”
I shake my head. “I love The Alley, but I was actually thinking of something a little fancier.”
“Ohhh…. You want to go out-out.”
“That’s right.” Tonight, we’re going out-out.
I stand in front of my mirrored closet, checking my new dress from all angles. The thong I’m wearing leaves underwear lines in the black silk. Men are so lucky they don’t have to worry about stupid stuff like underwear lines. If I had my way, I’d be wearing a pair of cotton underwear that covers my whole ass, but no. Underwear lines are forbidden. Women must be smooth and perfect at all times, from their faces to their asses.
All my other thongs are lacy and will show.
I should just go without.
Imagine me going out in public without underwear. Talk about scandalous.
You know what? I deserve a bit of scandal in my life. I’m going to do it. I slip off my thong and then turn around to check the back. Not a line in sight.
Perfect.
Since smooth is the new theme, I drag my forgotten straightener from one of the boxes I have yet to empty beside my bed. Thirty minutes later, my hair is as smooth and straight as my skirt. It’s a fruitless exercise, really, because the moment my hair finds even a hint of humidity it’ll be frizz city, but until then, I am sleek and svelte. Two words I would normally never use to describe myself.
When I step out of my room, I feel like a million bucks. The men of Nashville are in for a treat tonight. I’m not coming home until I have someone else’s spit in my mouth.
Okay, that’s gross. Let’s try again.
I’m not setting foot back in this apartment until someone else’s mouth has erased the feeling of Elliott’s soft, perfect lips against mine.
Elliott is on the couch, his back to me, Ross and Rachel arguing on the TV screen. He has a glass of water in his hand instead of a beer. Interesting.
Not that I care about the change. He can drink whatever he wants just like I’m going to drink whatever I want.
“Hey,” he says without turning around. “I was thinking about ordering pizza for dinner. Do you want some—” He throws a look over his shoulder and his question dies a slow, quiet death. His eyes widen, blazing a trail from the dress’s square neckline to my red heels.
The answer to Elliott’s unfinished question is an unequivocalyes. I do “want some.” From the way his eyes darken, it lookslike he does too. But since that’s not going to happen, I shall get “some” elsewhere.
Slowly his gaze climbs, up, up, up, but his eyes never reach my face. Instead, they’re very clearly stuck on my chest.
“Are you wearing what I think you’re wearing?” he says in a reverent whisper.
“Maybe.” I bite my lip to keep from adding, “And nothing else.”
He lifts his glass to his mouth but never gets that sip because his lips flatten. “And you’re wearing it tonight.”
