Page 213 of Wait for Him

"Whatcha..." He gestures vaguely with the jacket. "Whatcha wearing there, sis?"

I take one neat step backward before he can cover me and give him the look. The look. The same one I've been giving him since he was fifteen and trying to explain why putting a dirt bike on the roof of our garage had seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea.

"A dress, dear brother."

"That's not a..." His eyes make the mistake of dropping, then shoot straight back to my face. "Rose."

"I have a date with a jilted groom." I pat his cheek. "Put the jacket down."

"But it's leather," he whispers, horrified.

"Yes. I was aware of that when I tried it on and purchased it."

"There are people here."

"I noticed that as well."

"Men, Rose. Men are here."

I stare at him. "I'm familiar with the concept."

Behind him, somebody snorts.

Michael spins toward the room. "Nobody asked any of you."

I step around him before he decides to throw the jacket over my head and feel Jackson's eyes find me again. I don't need to look to confirm it. I can feel the stare from across the room.

"Hi, everyone."

"Fucking hell, Rosalie."

Jenn waddles in from the back of the apartment, both hands resting on her belly, wearing a glow only she could pull off. Pregnancy suits her in a way that feels genuinely unfair to the rest of humanity.

"You look fucking phenomenal." She gives me another slow inspection. "Now I'm horny all over again."

I laugh and wrap her up carefully. "You're always horny, Jenn."

"I really am. This baby has absolutely ruined me."

"Baby, you were always horny long before you got pregnant." Joseph materializes behind her and delivers one decisive slap to her ass. "Own it." Then he looks at me over her shoulder. "Hey, Rosie. You do look stunning."

"Thank you, Joe."

"I said that too," Michael grumbles from somewhere behind me.

"No, you tried to dress me."

"Same sentiment."

I make my rounds, and once I've greeted everyone, I head straight for the kitchen and claim a glass of wine off the counter. I drink half of it standing right there because only now, safely behind the island, do I feel remotely equipped to deal with the fact that I deliberately dressed like this in front of Marcus Jackson.

Or, more accurately, for Marcus Jackson.

Fine.

The truth is, I made a conscious effort not to stare when I walked in. I was aiming for maturity. Dignity. The emotional composure expected of a woman my age who has spent the last year doing an obscene amount of work on herself.

Unfortunately, Marcus Jackson makes dignity difficult.