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Drag-less, boy-less, happy-less.
But hey, at least I have a stalker!
The involuntary eye roll was dramatic, even though there wasn’t an audience to witness it. I grabbed a bundle of tights off the coffee table and tossed them in the pile of clothes that needed to go to my bedroom, cleaning up after the surprise text-sync between Ryan and me. There were a few coffee mugs on the kitchen counter and some dirty dishes in the sink, which I wrangled up and dropped in the never-used dishwasher. I half expected to open it and find a family of raccoons nesting inside.
Next up was the bedroom—which I was not planning on using.
Still. It was always important to be camera ready. The space was pretty clean, with everything easily stuffed into my overflowing laundry basket inside my closet. The bed was made, white sheets freshly washed and still smelling like lavender, and there were only a few pairs of heels that needed rehoming, as opposed to the army of shoes I had littering my floors before I installed a cute little organizer on the closet door.
All right, what to wear, what to wear.
I flicked through the hangers, nixing most of my shirts with a quick glance. I pulled out a few top contenders and placed them on the bed, turning to my dresser and opening the drawer with all my shorts. I grabbed three of my faves and laid them next to the shirts, taking a step back and doing some quick fashion calculations to figure out which combo would look best on me— Holy fuck. I’m treating this like a date.
I ceased any and all calculations and grabbed the shorts closest to me and the shirt that looked the most comfortable.
This wasn’t a date. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind or stage of life or moon cycle or whatever other fucking metric there was that measured someone’s ability to date other people. It didn’t matter that Ryan made me Google the appropriate number of chest palpitations one could have before a person needed to seek medical attention. It didn’t matter that his smile lit up a room in that corny way movies always talked about and you never imagined real until you crossed paths with a walking lighthouse of a man and were proven wrong; there really were smiles that shone like stars.
It didn’t matter; none of it did. This wasn’t a date.
It wasn’t.
But that shirt would look better on me.
I made a quick swap. Not a date. And I hurried to the bathroom, not sure how much time I had left to get ready for this obvious anti-date. I covered up a couple of stress blemishes on my face with a tinted face cream and gave my hair a little attention with a comb, hair spray, and a matte paste.
Nothing over the top, just enough to make me look good enough for a not-date.
I brushed my teeth and rinsed my mouth, spitting into the sink at the exact moment the doorbell rang throughout my house, the pleasant chimes filling the space. I gave myself one last look-over—not a date—and went to the door—not a date—ironing out a stray wrinkle on my salmon-pink tie-dyed shirt—definitely not a date—and opened the door.
“This the drag academy?” Ryan quipped, holding up two plastic bags, that friendly smile draped so easy across his face, adding a softness to the already perfect lines that made his strong jaw and chin so eye-catching. “I’ve got my supplies ready to go.”
I arched a brow and couldn’t hold back the laugh. “You didn’t have to buy anything.” I stepped aside and motioned him in, my living room suddenly feeling like it’d been dropped into the center of the sun. Blindingly bright and searingly hot. With his back to me, I took a chance and drank him in, finding a strong appreciation for the way his broad shoulders tapered down and in, giving him a leanness that complemented the muscles, all of it apparent even over his light blue T-shirt.
Oh, and that ass. Jesus, Mary, and Mother of the House of Blessed Peaches. That man had been given a gift that was shared with anyone in his posterior vicinity.
He turned, and I tried racing my gaze back up past the southern hemisphere without him noticing. “Nice place,” he said, something in his smirk giving me the impression he totally noticed.
Not a date, not a date.
“Thanks.” I grabbed the bags and walked ahead of him, making sure to keep the peachy kryptonite out of my sight. “I moved in pretty recently. Still have a few boxes left to unpack.”
I set the bags on the wet bar and rummaged through what he bought. “Oh Lordy,” I said, pulling out a fried bleach-blond wig, the hair looking like it wasn’t only synthetic but also sentient. “Did you kill this before you brought it into my house?”
