***
I'd like to say that I hadn't given any thought to the package Sebastian promised would be arriving today. I'd like to say that over the last twenty-four hours my mind never drifted to the few memories I still have of our tumultuous night together. That I didn't scamper to the front door like a dog every time I heard something that could possibly be construed as a delivery.
I'd like to say all of those things. But you and I both know that would be a load of a shit, right?
I know I'm not the first woman to feel these flutters of butterflies at the mere thought of a man, but I still feel like a numskull, nonetheless. This isn't me. This has never been me. While my high school girlfriends were going crazy about boys, I was studying. While my college friends were crushing on guys, I was having meaningless flings to satiate needs while I stayed focused on my life plans.
Running a business like mine might not seem like the loftiest of goals, but it was a strategic plan on my part to build something small into something big. This is a market in demand, regardless of the economy. People want their wedding, and their pre-wedding parties, to be memorable. And people, men in particular, like their strippers. And I like running my own life, having a career that I control, not working for someone else who tells me when I can eat and use the bathroom and make a phone call. I'm too autonomous for that shit. So this business suits me perfectly. And I have big plans for expansion.
Men, relationships, emotional attachments—those just complicate shit. It makes the whole world muddled. I've seen it happen to my girlfriends time and again, women I hardly ever see anymore. Women who don't have time for the things they loved before.
I don't want to be one of those women.
That's why I'm not going to let Dr. Sexy woo me beyond one night.
So when the doorbell rings (finally, fuck!) and I accept the package I know is from him, I refuse to acknowledge the schoolgirl giddiness I'm feeling in the pit of my stomach.
But Tate watches me pull off the red ribbon from the box with his knowing grin, and I want to smack it off of him.
"Fuck off," I tell him as I open the lid.
"You're all talk, my love-sick twin."
With all the maturity born of years of study, I stick my tongue out at him and then suck in my breath when I see what's in the box. With shaking hands I pull out the most stunning red dress, shoes and matching lipstick. Russian Red, the Mac label says. But I'm more focused on the clothes. A pair of designer shoes, and a dress that I know put him out a shit ton of money. (That's a real amount by the way. You can look it up. It'll have a picture of this dress and these shoes next to it.)
Tate whistles. "This is what he sends you for your breakup dinner?"
"It's not a break up dinner. We were never together. Not really." But my voice lacks conviction because I'm now reading the note, and maybe there's a tear in my eye, but I refuse to admit that.
I tuck the card away, and Tate waits.
"I'm not sharing that part. It's personal."
"Too personal for me? It must be huge, then," he says.
And it is. It's huge because it's so simple. So tender. So unexpectedly pure. And I can't think about it or look at it or read it because it destroys my resolve, and tonight I will need all my resolve to finish this once and for all.
Chapter 5
One Summer
The rest of the day is wasted. We try to work; we get a few plans down for marketing and ideas for this summer season of parties. Business will take off soon. It always does this time of year, especially in Vegas, and we want to be ready to take on all of the clients we know will be coming our way.
I put off dressing for my non-date until the latest possible moment, my mind and body at war with what they want from the night.
The dress fits perfectly, hugging all my curves as if it had been made for my body alone. The shoes give height to my short frame, and I fall in love with them the moment I put them on. Damn that man.
When the doorbell rings, I know it's not a delivery, but the man himself, and I experience a case of serious nerves. I'm not the wilting flower type, if you hadn't guessed that by now. I can hold my own in most any situation, but right now I'm about to melt out of my dress, and I haven't even seen him yet.
I can hear Tate opening the door and letting him in, and I hurry to swipe my lips with Russian Red lipstick, grab my purse—which has all the important documents in it—and act like I'm not a basket of butterflies as I walk—gracefully, I like to imagine—down the stairs.