“WHAT?”
“The outfit was one of the conditions of me agreeing to go out with him in the first place.”
My cousin cackles. “Chandler Westbrooke, I never knew you had it in you. Look at you, bossing dudes around with psychological warfare after throwing them on the ground. Wow. I’m impressed.”
I wish people would stop saying that. I did not throw him on the ground! I used strategy to execute a well-thought-out karate skill.
“Would you stop? I have to figure out what I’m wearing—not that I care what he thinks. It’s just, I haven’t been out in a long time, and it’s fun to wear makeup.” Cough-cough.
“How about jeans, so he doesn’t feel like a complete asshole? And a cute top.” She thinks. “Got any plaid shirts lying around in your closet?”
Yes.
I do have a plaid, button-down shirt. It’s flannel and more suited for the winter months, black and red like Tripp’s. “Come on, be serious.”
“I am being serious. How cute would the two of you be all matchy-matchy…”
Not cute.
Nauseating.
Plus, he would hate it.
“I’m not wearing a plaid shirt so he feels more comfortable. Everyone will think we’re heading to Plaid Fest.”
That makes Hollis laugh. “Fine. How about a nice shirt then? A bright blue one. Haha. Get it, Babe?”
Babe the Blue Ox.
“Calling you was such a bad idea,” I tell her, walking to my closet and standing inside, staring at the racks of clothes I just managed to hang.
“Sorry, I can’t help it. I’ve been under the influence of Buzz Wallace for the past few weeks and he has the worst sense of humor.”
He doesn’t. He’s charming and funny and always kind when it counts.
I envy her.
“It’s rubbing off on me and not in a good way.”
I disagree. “I wouldn’t say that. You sound happy.”
A blissful sigh. “I am.”
My heart constricts.
When we disconnect the call, after I tell her I love her and to have a wonderful time and travel safe, I stay standing in my closet. Bite my lip and allow my eyes to roam over all the shit in my possession—which isn’t a ton, because I’ve been in school and not focused on dating and have the wardrobe to prove it.
Shit.
I choose a pair of jeans from the shelf and hold them up, then toss them to the bed.
A plain black, long-sleeved t-shirt will have to do. Large gold hoop earrings. Hair down. Makeup minimal.
Wait, no.
I toss the black shirt onto the bed, dissatisfied.
It’s not that I have anything to prove, but the shirt is basic and boring—two of the things he’s said about me.
I waffle, unsure. Maybe I should throw on a nicer blouse—it’s not like I can’t get away with it; women at The Ivy will be wearing Chanel. Or Prada, or whatever it is women wear when they’re working a room.
I have beautiful things.
My parents can easily afford the wardrobe hanging in my closet, the one I’m blinking at as if I have nothing to wear.
Jeans, and…
And.
My fingers rub the sleeve of a silk black blouse—it buttons down the front, with two long satin ribbons hanging down that can be left alone or tied into a bow at my neck.
I fish a black bra out of my bureau drawer then shrug into the blouse. Slide on the jeans then tuck the shirt in before buttoning and zipping the fly.
If I don’t button the shirt to the neck, leaving the top three undone…
The effect is actually pretty…sexy.
Understated but sexy. He’ll get sneak peeks of my boobs if he’s sitting in the right spot and it wouldn’t do me any harm to practice flirting with him.
If I can get through an evening with Tripp Wallace, one of the saltiest men alive, I can get through any first date. Any guy I swipe on will not be as bad as what I’m probably going to be enduring tonight.
I riffle through my jewelry and select silver hoops. Bend and pull out a pair of black, pointy toe pumps off the shoe rack.
Check the delicate silver watch clasped around my wrist: thirty minutes and counting.
The hair, the hair, the hair….
I haven’t worn it down in ages, so I pull it from the elastic hairband and brush it out, plugging in the flat iron simply to smooth it out.
My makeup routine is simple, too: conceal the red spots on my face, brush on some blush and bronzer, swipe on some onyx mascara, finish it off with lipstick.
Hot pink?
No, red.
That will throw the bastard off his game for sure.
Believe it or not, I actually have loads of bright lipsticks. No idea why, considering I barely ever wear makeup. Probably samples, or gifts from my mother in her many, never-ending attempts to make me more of a lady and get me married off, as society women with daughters are wont to do.
Sorry Mother, I’d rather follow in Hollis’s footsteps and take my own path—even if there’s a small pit stop along the way, even if I have to work for the family for however long it takes to find my dream job.
My skin is glowing.
My lips are stained a sultry red and look surprisingly plump.
Thanks to the straightener, my hair is a bit sleeker now, the strands shiny and glossy.
I give myself one more cursory glance in the mirror before flipping off the bathroom light and popping into my closet one last time to grab a black, quilted handbag before the doorbell rings.
I slow my pace so I don’t sprint to the door, purposely taking my sweet time. Tripp can wait.
My eyes widen when I pull the door open, expecting plaid and khaki and possibly a stuffed ox jammed into one of his pockets. Maybe even a stocking cap atop his head to complete the look.
Not even close.
Tripp Wallace is…he’s…Tripp is…
…dressed up, kind of.
Dressed far better than he was for even his brother’s rehearsal dinner, but less dressy than he was at the wedding.
Expensive black button-down shirt, two top buttons left undone. Dark blue jeans. Dress shoes, shined to a polish.
Dear Lord, we match.
“You’re not wearing the Paul Bunyan getup.” My tone isn’t exactly accusatory, but I am disappointed and I’m sure it shows. If my mouth doesn’t say it, my eyebrows will…
We had a deal.
Plus, I would have paid to see him walk into that restaurant dressed like a bumpkin.
His dark eyes narrow. “You were serious about that?”
“Dead serious.” Mostly. My hand is still up on the doorjamb, barring his entry. “Maybe we should forget about this whole night since you reneged on your half of the bargain. I don’t know if I can trust you now.”
Especially considering this is the second time he’s lied—first about the sports car, now about the outfit he promised to wear. This man gives no fucks about anyone but himself.
I shoot my eyes into my brows defiantly. No sense in playing sweet and naïve now that he knows what I’m capable of—and it would serve him right for me to cancel on him.
He had one job—wear the outfit we agreed to—and in turn, I would come out with him for one drink.
I honestly did not think he would bail on the plan.
“But I’m hungry,” he says, as if that’s an entire argument for his case.