“Shut up and put the heels back on.”
A minute later she was in the nude heels, adjusting a gossamer gold wrap around her shoulders. “Just earrings,” Taylor said. “Anything around your neck will distract from your shoulders and collarbones. Earrings, and a messy blowout, and makeup. Pale lipstick, darker eyes. You can do makeup, right?”
“Yes,” Charlie said desperately, eyeing Jamie self-consciously in the mirror. Even the guys she’d dated who respected her as an athlete sometimes balked at her wearing heels. But it wasn’t like she was going to the events with Jamie. “Taylor, I just don’t know about the heels. Do you have the flats in gold?”
Jamie walked over to stand just behind her right shoulder. Barefoot, they were the same height; in the heels she had three inches on him. He wove his fingers through hers, then lifted his chin, offering his mouth to her. Without thinking even the tiniest bit about moral turpitude clauses, or what would happen when his leave was up, she bent her head and kissed him, soft and hot.
“You’re gorgeous,” he said, looking up into her eyes as he squeezed her hand. “The heels turn you into a goddess.”
Only Jamie could make that sound authentic. “You win,” she said to Taylor.
Taylor collected the accessories and started ringing up the purchases while Charlie changed back into her work suit. She brought out the fuchsia dress, and found Jamie standing by the counter.
“What are you wearing?” Taylor said. “I can recommend a really good men’s shop on the next block, but it’ll cost you an arm and a leg for last-minute alterations.”
“I’m good, thanks,” Jamie said, taking the slightest step back.
Not settling for that, Taylor raised an eyebrow.
“I’m wearing my uniform,” he said, almost apologetically.
“Military?”
“Yes, ma’am. Navy.”
“Oh, the white ones? Okay, that’s a jacket you can wear over your dress,” Taylor said, turning to Charlie to present her with a receipt to sign. “It’ll be like something out of a fashion spread, or the cover of a romance novel!”
Jamie turned a laugh into a cough.
“That’s probably not allowed,” Charlie said, trying not to think about a uniform dress coat draped over her shoulders, warm from his body, his ribbons and medals weighing it down as she signed the receipt.
“Service member’s discretion,” Jamie said, soft and warm, like all he could think about was her wearing his jacket.
“Thanks, Taylor,” Charlie said.
“My pleasure. If anyone asks, please mention the shop. Business has been slow lately.”
“Count on it,” Charlie said as she accepted the hanging bag and two shopping bags. “I’ll do my red carpet thing, name-drop the shop every chance I get.”
They stowed the bags in the back seat of Charlie’s car.
“Dinner?” Jamie asked.
She was on the verge of giving him an out when her stomach growled. Jamie’s eyes widened. Suddenly, the stupidity of saying no hit her. It was a gorgeous spring evening, in the city’s trendiest neighborhood. Great local restaurants rubbed shoulders with boutiques like Taylor’s. When she was a teen she and her friends had come here to buy an ice cream and sit on the round brick planters and watch people with enough money to enjoy the shops and restaurants walk by.
It was just for now. It was just for leave. He was on offer for a limited time, and she was going to go after everything she could get like she’d go to the court for a loose ball. “Sounds great,” she said.
They settled on an American-French fusion place with all the requisite details, a waterfall streaming down a glass wall, bare tables made from recycled wood, white plates and napkins, and lime accents in the tile and wall art.
“Something to drink?” the server asked, then rattled off an extensive list of wines and beers, all locally sourced.
“Wine?” Jamie asked, his gaze focused on the menu.
“Sure.”
“Spinach-artichoke dip?”
“Please,” she said, a little more fervently than she intended. Her stomach was attempting to gnaw its way through her spine. He ordered a bottle of wine, which the server brought with a basket of bread Charlie had to sit on her hands to avoid decimating while they went through the ritual of wine tasting. As soon as the server backed away, Charlie snagged a hunk of focaccia.
“I missed lunch,” she said as soon as she swallowed.
“It’s all yours. Ian’s been taking me to every dive and rib joint in town,” Jamie said, holding up a hand when she offered him the basket. “I’m going to sweat barbecue sauce if we play tonight.”
“After eating here I’d probably throw up if we played,” she said. A few bites of bread went a long way toward soothing her demanding stomach. But she was questioning the wisdom of coming to a nice restaurant with Jamie, of candlelight dancing on his face.