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I open the lid and shove aside the tissue paper. Pale-pink chiffon fills my gaze—not quite baby pink but not quite peach. With shaking hands, I reach out and grab the thick straps. I lift it out, standing as I do.
It’s low cut. Very low cut, actually. There’s no way I can wear a bra with it, but the flowing material from below the bustline falls until roughly my knees. I stare at it for…ages. I don’t know how long, but I only stop when my arms begin to ache.
I… Wow.
I carefully lay it out on the sofa, shoving Angus to one side so he doesn’t ruin it. He meows affectedly and jumps back onto his window ledge.
My eyes find a small envelope in the middle of the box and I lift it out.
You told me you couldn’t go to the party because you’d have nothing to wear. Like you wouldn’t fit in there. You would and you will, and I wasn’t kidding when I said you could wear a paper bag and still look gorgeous. You will.
Still, you need more convincing. So here—a dress that will go with those Louboutins perfectly. I want you in it when I pick you up on Saturday night at 6:30.
You should never feel inferior to the people you’ll easily outshine.
T
Wow.
Wow, wow, wow.
That’s about the only thought I can form at the moment. In fact, I can’t do anything but fight the burn in my eyes.
No wonder he was so pissed off tonight. I’d be angry at me, too. I wish he’d fucking told me he’d done this—at least then I could have apologized for something I didn’t know I was doing on a date I didn’t know was happening.
But still. The guy bought me a dress because he doesn’t want me to feel like I don’t belong at his cousin’s party. And then I was a bit of a bitch to him.
I drop the paper and grab my phone. My eyes fill with angry, guilty tears as I bring up my text messages and click on his name.
You are the sweetest asshole I’ve ever met. Thank you.
His response is almost immediate.
No coming round to kick my ass?
Not this time. I’m sorry about earlier.
Me too. I was a bit of an ass.
A bit?
Ha. Funny girl. By the way, Liv?
What?
It was still a date.
My lips curve infinitesimally. “I know,” I whisper.
I know. Not much of a first date. You’ll need a do-over on Saturday.
My phone rings. His name flashes on the screen, and I answer. Before I can say anything, he says, “Saturday will be the best first date of your damn life, woman. Don’t doubt it for a fucking second. Be ready for six thirty or I’ll be forced to spank you.”
He hangs up on my gasp.
Holy.
Crapping.
