“We’re good with Belle, thanks,” I say gratefully, and turn back to Trevor. “You just want to see me in a shell bikini top.”
“Nobody would complain about that.” Is this Trevor’s way of admitting he wouldn’t mind seeing me, his best friend, in a seashell bra?
I tug at the itchy sleeve of my ball gown, unable to discern whether he’s being serious or sarcastic. “My boobs are not appropriate for your innocent niece’s tenth birthday party.”
“If you say so.” He’s distracted by his phone. I can’t help but peek at the screen. My eyes zero in on an open text conversation with Kyla.
“So, how was your hangout the other night with Kyla?” I ask, trying to make my voice as casual, sweet, and Disney princess–like as possible. “Was she as amazing as you remember?”
He pauses, his brow raised, evidently perplexed. “How’d you know I met up with Kyla?”
“Scotty told me.”
“I see.” He tucks his phone back in his pocket. “It was good to catch up with her. We might do drinks or something in the future.”
This news doesn’t sit right with my spirit, so I take cover behind the heavy velvet dressing room curtain, where it’s safe.
“What are you up to tonight?” he asks.
“Oh, uh, I have plans actually,” I tell him, sweating as I stumble over the inner layer of this godforsaken gown.
It took a full day before Daniel responded to my enthusiastic, all-caps-lock DM about being free on Friday. Crystal and Mel had to talk me off the ledge multiple times. I thought for sure I’d scared him off.
Trevor clears his throat. “You have plans?”
I’m too distracted by my hair tangled in the clasp of my bra to enlighten him on my plans with Daniel. After a solid minute of bending and contorting my body like a pretzel, far beyond my natural flexibility, I let out a strained, cowlike groan. “Help,” I plead.
Before I get the chance to hike the gown back up to cover myself, the curtain rips open. When I yelp, Trevor’s eyes rivet directly to my cleavage bursting over my double-push-up bra and downward to the tiny triangle of lace fabric between my legs.
He swiftly clamps a hand over his eyes like his retinas have been scorched and backs out of the changing room. “Damnit, Tara. You could have told me you were half-naked.”
“I didn’t know you were right outside the stall. And don’t act scandalized. You see me in a bikini almost every night in the hot tub. It’s the same thing,” I hiss, still struggling. “Get back here. I need your help.”
“Seriously?”
“My hair is stuck in my bra clasp. I need you to untangle it.”
He lets out a tortured sigh, like a teenager being forced to finish their calculus homework. When he finally peels back the curtain again, his hands are still snug over his eyes. It’s not a large space by any means, but it feels infinitely more claustrophobic with a Thor-size man behind me, along with my massive, fifty-pound dress. Maybe Trevor has a point about the excessive fabric.
His proximity behind me instantly dries my throat. I’m desperate to chug a gigantic water bottle. His strained, minty breath soothes the sensitive flesh on the back of my neck, which is bent at an odd angle from the weight of the tangle. When his rough fingertips graze my back, a hum of electricity comes alive, circuiting to all my nerve endings from my fingertips to my toes.
He tugs my tangle free, little by little, careful not to rip my hair out. The odd, gentle graze of his knuckles brushing against my back is enough to send any straight woman into a bout of unconsciousness. After a couple of deep inhales of his scent, I’m a rag doll. Pliable, floppy, and an all-around hot mess. When he tugs one stubborn section of hair a little harder than expected, I tip into him, relying on his body for support. He splays his massive hand over my bare hipbone to steady me.
My breath hitches the moment the small of my back presses flush against something very unexpected. And hard. My mind splits into fragments. Trevor Metcalfe is insanely turned on.
“Why are you . . . ?” I don’t dare move, backward, forward, sideways, or otherwise.
He instantly backs up half a step, which doesn’t mean much in the tiny changing room stall. He lets out a frustrated huff. “Can you blame me? You’re half-naked and pressed against me,” he quips, evidently offended and entirely broken up about it. I whip around, about to descend into manic laughter when he wags his finger at me. “Do not laugh.”
Holding my dress over my boobs in one hand, I slap the other over my mouth to suppress my reaction while trying not to look directly at it. “Okay, okay. It’s forgotten.” No, it’s not.
Pained, he pointedly stares at the ceiling, probably wishing he could eject himself out of here, straight through the roof, Iron Man–style. He looks about as uncomfortable as Dad when Mom forced him to be part of our birds and the bees talk when I was thirteen.
“What exactly are your plans tonight? Girls’ night?” he probes.
Is he really trying to have a ridiculously casual conversation after that? No wonder the man doesn’t do small talk. I log this as a victory, no matter how scientific. Then again, I have heard of men popping boners over less.
“I’m going on a date, actually,” I say through a cough, inadvertently ripping the remaining lock of hair free from my bra clasp. I have a bald spot now, I’m sure of it.
He perks up with renewed curiosity. “A date? With who?”
“Daniel.”
“What? You didn’t tell me you got in touch with him.”
I lift my bare shoulder with a dismissive shrug. “Sorry. I meant to tell you.” I describe our LinkedIn DM reunion in great detail.
He clears his throat, awkwardly resting his arm on the wall behind my head. “So . . . you’re going to dinner? Tonight?”
“I’m taking him to that Italian place I told you about a few blocks from our place. Mamma Maria’s. Grandma Flo had her engagement party there last year. Their fettuccini is on a whole different level,” I say over the echo of my heartbeat. “Sorry if I’m rambling. I’m just nervous. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him. What do you think the chances are that he’ll also be down to be my gala date on Tuesday?”
His eyes search mine, but he doesn’t respond. The silence is palpable as the walls of the changing room threaten to close in around us.
“You think I’m getting my hopes up, don’t you? Being too intense about it?” I venture.
“I don’t think that at all.” He catches a loose strand of my hair through his fingers. His jaw is so tense, he’s at risk of cracking his beautiful teeth. He’s literally inches away from my face, and if I went on my tiptoes, I could probably close that gap. I think he might even want to, until he says, “You’re gonna make some guy really happy one day. And I hope for your sake that it’s Daniel.”
I flinch. His words solidify the harsh truth. Regardless of whether or not he was turned on by me in an enclosed space, he sure as sugar is not my hero.
The sooner I come to terms with that glaring, indisputable fact, the better.
There’s a stretch of silence as he exits the stall, closing the curtain between us yet again.
? chapter twenty-six
CAN I OFFER you a drink yet, ma’am?” Rogan, the waiter, asks for the third time in a faux Queen’s style British accent. For the past twenty minutes, he’s been silently judging the shit out of me from afar as I demo the house breadsticks.
“I’d still like to wait for my date, thanks.” I give him my best breezy, unbothered smile, like I’m perfectly content alone at this table for two. Just me and my breadsticks.
Rogan gives me a tight-lipped nod and shuffles away to observe from afar with the other waitstaff. I’m convinced they’re taking bets about me based on their not-so-subtle glances and whispers. After years of working in my grandparents’ restaurant, I’m painfully aware that making dumb bets on customers is sometimes the only source of entertainment in an otherwise monotonous shift.
Ten bucks says her date won’t show.
Let’s wager a guess when the waterworks start.
Why is it that sitting alone in a fancy establishment is so much more humiliating than in your average chain restaurant? No one would judge me if I were eating these breadsticks solo at Olive Garden.
I drum the toes of my heels against the lush carpet, trying to block out the classical music, which probably wouldn’t be so grating if I weren’t languishing all by my lonesome. Daniel is late, and I’m starting to wonder when it’s appropriate to phone it in and order a slice of the twelve-layer chocolate cake on the menu, to go. I curse myself for not confirming the date and time after my fitting at the costume shop.
When my phone lights up, a jolt of electricity rips through me. It has to be Daniel, telling me he’s on his way posthaste, followed by a long-winded explanation of the harrowing incident that caused his tardiness.
But no such luck. The text is from Trevor.
TREVOR: How’s dinner going?