I’m not nervous.
I’m not.
The fact that I’ve changed my shirt twice and am currently arguing with my reflection is purely a coincidence.
“You look like you’re about to go to war, not dinner,” I mutter at my own scowling face.
Which, to be fair, isn’t totally wrong. I’m taking Barbara Neal out in public. In fancy clothes. With other people around. That’s practically combat.
I grab my jacket, wallet, keys, and the small velvet box sitting on my desk. Not a ring—Christ, I’m not that crazy. Yet. Just a pair of delicate gold earrings shaped like tiny bees with black enamel stripes. When I saw them online at three in the morning, my heart did a weird lurch, and my finger hit ‘buy now’ before my brain caught up.
“Pathetic,” I tell myself fondly, tucking the box into the inner pocket of my blazer.
The Audi’s idling at the curb, thanks to Dominic, our doorman. I press a fifty into his wrinkled hand and slide in. As I pull into traffic, my phone buzzes once in the console.
Firecracker:
I'm ready. If you stand me up, I’m sending Basia your address so she can key your car.
I huff out a laugh and type back at a red light:
Me:
Relax, firecracker. I wouldn’t miss a date with you for anything.
Her typing bubble pops up, then disappears. Then her message comes through.
Firecracker:
It’s not a date.
Me:
Sure, baby. Keep telling yourself that. I’ll be right there.
Her only response is the middle finger emoji. I can’t stop grinning the entire way to her place.
I barely pull up when the door to her apartment building opens, and my whole world narrows to one woman.
Barbara steps out in a dress that actively tries to kill me. It’s a deep emerald green that does obscene things to her glowing skin, clinging to her curves before flaring just above the knee. The neckline dips enough to be dangerous but not enough to be trashy. Her hair’s up in a loose twist, a few blonde curls escaping to brush her neck. Gold heels, small clutch, lips glossed. A classy shawl keeping her shoulders and arms warm.
Every cell in my body goes hot.
She spots me and hesitates, lifting a hand self-consciously to smooth her dress.
I’m already out of my car and moving toward her before I register unbuckling my seatbelt.
“Holy shit,” I breathe when I reach her. “You trying to give me a stroke, Barbs? You look fucking fantastic.”
Her cheeks flush pink. “You’re… dressed,” she counters weakly, glancing at my dark suit and open collar.
I snort. “I could show up in a trash bag and it wouldn’t matter. No one’s going to be looking at me while you’re in the room.”
Her lips twitch, like she’s trying not to smile. “You’re laying it on thick tonight.”
I offer her my arm, bowing slightly. “Come on, firecracker. Let me buy you dinner before you remember you allegedly hate me.”
She rolls her eyes but slips her hand into the crook of my elbow and lets me lead her to the passenger seat. My heart does that stupid lurch again.
