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With that, I ditch the doorway and sashay down the hallway, swinging my hips as I go. I have no idea which room is Dax and Violet’s, so I don’t know where I’m going. But I don’t need to know. Surely, after Colin picks his jaw up from the floor, he’ll catch up to me and lead me to our destination. In the meantime, though, I wouldn’t have missed provoking the look on Colin’s face a second ago, for all the money in the world.
Thirteen
Colin
I do a quick lap of my living room, making sure everything is neat and tidy for Amy’s imminent arrival. I’m not anxious about seeing Amy again, only excited. Thankfully, after that awkward brunch on Sunday with the gang, everything went back to normal between Amy and me. In fact, every time Amy and I chatted on the phone in the evenings this week to talk about our respective days—Amy’s been working in the mail room at her father’s law firm this week, while I’ve been doing costume fittings and rehearsals in anticipation of next week’s shooting schedule—the vibe between us has been every bit as comfortable and easy as it was in Seattle before I screwed everything up with that kiss.
No, the thing making me nervous about Amy’s imminent arrival is the simple fact that she’s an O’Brien. Growing up on Cedar Street, the O’Brien house was the biggest and fanciest on our block, while mine was by far the smallest and most modest. While Amy’s house was stylishly decorated and immaculate, mine always felt “lived in” and in need of repairs. And so, knowing what kind of house Amy grew up in, and therefore considers normal, I can’t help wanting to knock her socks off with the home I chose for myself, and then had decorated to my taste, when money wasn’t an object.
There’s a knock at the front door and I barrel to it excitedly, my heart pounding—and the second I behold Amy in my doorframe, my eyes telescope in and out like I’m Donald Duck beholding Daisy Duck in a polka-dotted bikini. Who is this red-haired femme fatale standing in my doorway?
“Wow!” I blurt like a fool. “You look amazing, Amy!”
Amy bats her eyelashes, playing the part of Daisy Duck to a T, without even realizing it. “Why, thank you. So do you.” She giggles when I don’t move. “May I come in . . .?”
“Oh! Yes. Please do.” I grab her suitcase, feeling flustered. “Lemme get that for you.”
“Thank you. It’s got wheels, Colin.”
“Oh.”
Disregarding the wheels, I carry Amy’s bag into my house, still staring at her in disbelief. Her newly red hair makes her green eyes pop almost supernaturally. And speaking of things that look supernatural . . . Good lord, Amy’s tits are otherworldly! What magic spell has Amy cast on them to make them defy gravity this way? She couldn’t have gotten a boob job this past week, could she? No, she’s got to be wearing a push-up bra with extra padding. Or maybe the neckline of her low-cut dress is creating some kind of optical illusion?
“Your house is beautiful,” Amy says, gliding into my living room.
“Thanks. Wow. Your hair is fire. You look gorgeous.”
“You like it?” Amy touches her glorious mane. “I didn’t tell you about my little transformation because I wanted to see your honest reaction.”
“My honest reaction is I love it. The red brings out the green in your eyes.”
“That’s what everyone keeps saying! I’ve never gotten so many compliments in my life—even from strangers!”
My stomach clenches. What strangers? People at her father’s law firm, where she’s been working this week . . . or dudes in bars?
Oh, God, no.
Did Amy go home with some random dude this week and show him Keane’s video about The Sure Thing? The odds are low, considering Amy worked long hours every day and then chatted for hours on the phone with me every evening afterward. But even if the odds are low, the mere thought of anyone laying a pinky on Amy is driving me fucking crazy.
“I know it’s silly,” Amy says. “But what you told me about Caleb warning everyone off me during the tour boosted my confidence like crazy. And then, getting so many compliments this week boosted it even more. Thank you again for telling me about that. It changed everything for me.”
That’s it. That’s what’s so different about Amy—her confidence. In fact, I’d even call it swagger. I’m sure Amy felt beautiful at Logan’s wedding last weekend in that pretty purple dress. But it’s clear the siren standing before me feels sexy as hell. Indeed, the girl’s now got sex appeal oozing out her pores.
“So, can I have a tour of the house?” Amy asks with a wave of her hand.
“Of course.” I clear my throat. “Follow me.”
