* * *
I keep looking at my phone, but it turns out that willing someone to text you doesn’t make it happen. I should know, because I’ve been willing Dean to text me all week.
I just need to know if he meant what he said at the bar on Saturday or if he was going through some sort of Amy detox that made him lose his mind for a minute. I don’t know what I’m going to do if he was serious, but if he wasn’t, at least I can stop thinking about it.
Alas, no text. No call. And tonight, I’m going to see him face to face again because, in a moment of idiocy, I promised my brother I’d come to his house to enjoy the nice weather around his firepit. Ten seconds after making that promise, I realized Dean would probably be there and almost made up an excuse to explain my absence, but . . . part of me wants to see him. Unfortunately, that’s the same part of me that thinks a steamy fling with my brother’s best friend sounds like a grand idea.
I shut down my computer. Time to face the music—just as soon as I change out of the clothes I’ve been working in all day. I look up from my desk and catch sight of a blond head passing my office. “Layla, could you hold up a minute?” I ask, walking around my desk. “I need to ask you something.”
“Oh. Sure.” She smiles, and I wave her into my office. “Is everything okay?” she asks as I shut the door behind her.
“Yes. Of course!” I look through my purse for a piece of gum just so I have something to do with my hands. “I just need a favor.”
“Sure. Anything.”
I swallow. So awkward. “I was wondering if you ever . . .” I clear my throat. “I mean, if you have free time this weekend, do you think you might . . .” God, kill me now.
“Oh.” She presses a hand to her chest and crinkles her face in discomfort. “Oh my God, I’m super flattered, Abbi, but Brock and I are doing the exclusive thing.”
I blink at her twice before I realize what her boyfriend has to do with anything. “Oh, no! I wasn’t going to ask you out.” My already hot cheeks blaze a degree hotter. Socially awkward much? “Not that you’re not attractive, but I . . .” I look at the ceiling and shake my head. “I was going to ask if you had time to maybe . . . teach me to dress like you do. I mean, not exactly like you, because that would be weird, but, like”—I wave both hands up and down to indicate my general lack of style—“something better than this?”
“You don’t like the way you dress?” she asks, cocking her head to the side. “You always look cute.”
“Thank you.” I take a deep breath and blurt out the little speech I’ve been planning all day. “My fashion choices are mostly driven by the desire to stay hidden, and my New Year’s resolution was to be less afraid.” Dean’s words echo in my head. “It’s okay to be scared, but don’t let fear keep you from going after what you want.”
“New Year’s . . . resolution?” she asks.
I nod.
“It’s September.”
Cringing, I turn up my palms. “I’d better hurry, right?”
She chuckles then nods. “I get it, and I’d love to, but I’ll be out of town this weekend—gotta visit the man before the event schedule gobbles up all our weekends.”
“Oh, sure. Of course. No problem.”
“But maybe next weekend? You just want to go shopping?”
I nod. “Yeah. I was thinking you could help me pick out a few new outfits and maybe teach me how to do my makeup and . . .” I thread my fingers through my limp hair. “And do something with this?”
“Sounds like fun,” she says.
My shoulders sag. “You’re a goddess. Thank you so much.”
“That’s usually what people say to me after the date.” She winks at me then opens the door, heading out. “I’ll see you next week, Abbi.”
So . . . makeover—check.
Next on the to-do list: seduction lessons with Dean. Maybe. Possibly. Probably not.
* * *
Dean
I’m a direct guy. I’ve never been one to flirt across a room or a crowded bar with nothing but eye contact. I prefer words. Subtle touches that progress to not-so-subtle touches. Contact.
But I guess there’s a first time for everything. Abbi and I arrived at Kace’s a few hours ago to spend the evening with our friends, and we haven’t exchanged a word. The tension between us is undeniable. Or maybe that’s all me.
Abbi’s dark hair is down tonight, flowing past her bare shoulders to the middle of her back. Her cheeks are flushed, probably courtesy of the cans of sparkling wine she’s been mainlining since she saw me arrive.