It’s like I’m doing the walk of shame, but without the real shame attached. It’s more like the walk of embarrassment.
“So, you got lost last night?” Macy asks, tugging on one of my quickly knotted pig-tail braids. My hair has its own agenda with this heat.
“I forgot my key and the room number,” I tell her, walking into our hotel room. Lincoln had to go check in at the concierge desk so I have a moment to collect my thoughts before we have to meet downstairs for our ATV excursion.
“Sounds awfully convenient,” Grace says with a wink.
“I slept in his bed, alone. Nothing happened, I can assure you.”
“Interesting,” Macy adds in.
“Knock it off,” I tell them, whipping through my suitcase to find appropriate clothes for today.
I glance over my shoulder at the two of them, wondering what they’re wearing. It should surprise me to see Grace in a trendy romper, or Macy in cuffed khaki shorts and a waist-tied button white shirt.
“You’re not going to be able to pee,” I tell Grace, “And that white shirt will probably be covered in mud by the time we get back.”
They shoo me off and continue brightening up their faces with touches of makeup as they concentrate on their reflections in the mirror.
I, on the other hand, am slipping on a pair of black running shorts, and a loose-fitting gray tank top with the slogan, “Girls play harder.” I don’t remember where I got this shirt, or why I have a shirt that says this, but it just means I couldn’t care less about what might happen to it today. As I’m straightening the shirt out over my chest, I recall the last conversation Lincoln and I had. He thinks I’m going to want him even more after this day is over. I dueled him to that challenge, of course, without a game-plan.
With a quick glance in the tall wall-length mirror to the side of me, I realize my outfit won’t help me with this little exercise. Although practical for riding an ATV, not attractive to a man, or I would assume.
I dig t
hrough my suitcase again, searching for my faded jean shorts that are torn a little too high in the rear. They won’t be comfortable, but they will help my plan. My plan without an outcome I can write home to Mom and Dad about.
I don’t have a good shirt to go with this, so I take drastic measures and try to tear the bottom of my shirt. The material doesn’t give.
“Aw, are you trying to make your shirt sexy,” Grace teases.
“No,” I snap.
“Yes, you are.”
“I just don’t want to be hot today,” I argue.
“Oh, ripping that shirt … that would make you hot all right.”
I close my eyes and toss my head back. “I have something that will cut that so you can tear it better,” Grace says. She jogs into the bathroom and returns with a tiny pair of scissors, meant to trim eyebrows. “Here.” Grace takes the material form my hand and makes a few snips.
“Thank you,” I offer, sticking out my tongue.
I tear the material in half so I can tie the ends about an inch above the waistline of my shorts. “Wow,” Macy says. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Look who's talking,” I retort. “You’re wearing a blouse.”
“It’s a casual tank top.”
“Still,” I tell her.
“Plus, I’m not here to impress anyone,” she says, smirking for good measure.
“I didn’t even know you still had a perfectly trimmed body,” Grace says. “You always cover up.”
“Well, today, I’m uncovering, so there you go,” I tell her. I’ve never been one to flaunt. It’s not my style. I’d rather attract someone with whom I am than what I look like, but Lincoln has already seen a few sides of me, so I think it’s okay to play it up a bit.
“Close your eyes,” Grace says, running to her open bag on the bed.