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“Lucky you!” Megan made a delighted noise. “Those reservations are difficult to score. But didn’t you get enough Middle Eastern food on deployment?”
My family tended to treat my deployments as an extreme ecotourism vacation where I’d sampled the local cuisine and selected souvenirs. I bit back a snappy reply about how eating without an armed guard would be a novelty.
“I’ll be fine,” I said instead. “You know me. As long as a place has decent bread, I’m happy.”
“Carbs.” She sighed dreamily. “Why couldn’t I get your metabolism?”
“You got to be an almost six-foot-tall professional dancer with amazing hair and skin. I think you made out okay.”
“True.” She laughed like making the dance squad for one of the LA-area pro football teams was no big deal. And maybe for her, it wasn’t.
“But back to the what-to-wear question…” Much as I loved my sister, I didn’t have all night to chat.
“Your charcoal sweater with nice jeans, like the ones I gave you for Christmas.”
“I usually wear that shirt on dates,” I hedged.
“You can’t look good for a friend?” she scoffed, a swishing noise happening in the background like she was pulling on a dress. “You did ask me what to wear.”
“I know.” I groaned because I’d also known this phone call was a bad idea, but I’d been desperate.
“Don’t ask for advice you don’t want, Avery.” Her tone turned decidedly big sister.
“Okay, okay, I’m grabbing the sweater for after my shower.” It was a soft number, a cashmere blend my mom had gifted me. Prickles raced up my back, guilt and pleasure mingling. The slide of the fabric against my skin was like wrapping myself in a cloud, but clothes were supposed to be functional, not an indulgence.
“Now, you can do me a favor.” Megan sounded more than a little bored with my dilemma. “Tell me what to do if tonight’s the night Jaden tries to put a ring on my finger.”
Not only was Megan well-known as the dance team captain and had a front-and-center role in team advertising, but she was also dating the star running back. And they were stupid in love, so no surprise she was dreaming of diamonds.
“Say yes so you can get your wedding all over social media?”
“Oh my God! We can have our own hashtag,” she squealed. “I love it.”
“I figured.” At least she couldn’t see my eye roll as we laughed together. “Okay, go get beautiful for your man. Love you.”
“You too,” she tittered before hanging up.
My gut did this weird little twist. She’d meant she loved me as well, not that I should go get beautiful, but I couldn’t shake that thought as I showered and changed. My hair and jaw were both a little scruffy. One of my post-injury adaptations was the occasional professional shave at my barber. Some things were still difficult with the left arm, even with an electric razor, but I did my best to tame the beast and flatten my hair. Blond curls might look sweet on Megan but not on me. Beautiful. Ha. I’d settle for presentable.
I’d last worn the jeans she’d mentioned on New Year’s Eve.
“Nice ass,” some random dude at the party I’d gone to with Venus had said. “I’d kill to look that good in jeans.”
I hadn’t known what to do with the compliment. Hadn’t worn the jeans since, but it wasn’t like Malik was going to care about my ass. This was not a date. Not. A. Date.
I shuddered as the soft sweater grazed my nipples. Damn it. I needed to get off, take the edge off my jangly nerves, but no time. It had been too long since my last jack-off session. Shaving wasn’t the only thing more difficult left-handed.
Done dressing and putting on my prosthesis, I cast a critical eye on myself in the mirror. Not worried about being beautiful. I’d be happy to simply fit in. Maybe I looked too hot? Too…something.
Avery. Get a grip. No time to change anyway. I needed to summon a ride to the restaurant. I was planning on drinking, so I opted for the rideshare app.
Bon Repass was located in the middle of a trendy Beverly Hills street, absolutely the type of place Venus would love but way out of my league. And usual budget. The elegant maroon awning with gold lettering set the tone with little details like potted plants and lushly padded benches for waiting, further giving a luxury vibe. Malik was already waiting on one of the benches, and he smiled widely as I approached.
“Hey,” Malik greeted me. “Looking good,”
Crap. Maybe I had tried too hard.
“You too,” I mumbled, trying not to stare. I hadn’t seen Malik in anything other than our usual black A-List security T-shirts, and he looked…different in a crisp white shirt and slim gray pants. Good wasn’t precisely the right compliment. Imposing? Commanding? For the first time, I could see how he’d been an officer, the way he carried himself with so much casual swagger, perfect posture, not a seam or button out of place.
