I imagined Clay would be in that latter group, had he not been saddled with me. But this was all his idea in the first place, and I reminded myself of that as I waited for him to tell me what the hell to wear.
“Neither one of them feels like you,” he said after a long pause.
I sighed, the hangers dropping to my sides, dresses on the floor. “Of course not. I bought them today with that exact intention.”
“Why?” Clay shook his head, taking the hangers out of my hands and crossing to my closet. He stuck the dresses in haphazardly and then started filtering through my clothes.
“Excuse me,” I said, slipping between him and my twenty skirts before I pressed a hand to his chest and pushed him back. “A little privacy, please?”
“You asked for my help.”
“Just… sit,” I said, pointing to my bed as I turned back around. I hung my hands on my hips, not happy with anything staring back at me — at least, not for this.
There were no fashion guidebooks on What to Wear to Seduce Your Crush by Using Your Fake Boyfriend.
“Wear something you like,” Clay said from behind me, kicking his sneakers off and lounging back on my bed like it was home.
It was unfair how enticing he looked in just black joggers and a gray NBU t-shirt that he’d ripped the arms off. But that rip had his bulging biceps and shoulder muscles on display, as well as his lats underneath, and my gaze lingered there for a moment too long before I brought my eyes to a more decent location. Of course, that decent location was his face, which was freshly shaven, his slightly damp boyish hair curling a bit around the flat-billed cap he wore.
Here I was stressing about what to wear, and meanwhile, Clay was practically in pajamas, yet looked ridiculously sexy and ready to take home three supermodels with one smirk and wink combination.
He started thumbing through his phone, oblivious to me checking him out. “You don’t want to be uncomfortable. It’ll show.”
“But what if everything that’s comfortable to me is boring?”
He stopped texting, arching a brow at me. “Trust me, nothing you wear is boring.”
I gave him a flat look. “You know what I mean. You’ve seen the girls who salivate over him at the foot of the stage.” I sighed, looking back at my closet. “I don’t have anything like that.”
“You don’t need anything like that.” Clay snapped his fingers. “Oh! Wear the kitten skirt. My favorite. Makes your ass look—”
“Don’t finish that,” I warned. “And I can’t. I was wearing that last time he saw me.”
Clay blinked when I stared at him like that was an obvious issue.
I groaned, waving my hand at him and turning back to the closet. “Just… be quiet so I can focus. And stay away from my books.”
“Your porn? Sure thing.”
I rolled my eyes, but didn’t grace him with a response as I paged through my blouse options. I paused when I came to a simple, white, short-sleeved button up, plucking it out and laying it over the back of my desk chair before I started swiping through again.
“Did I tell you Maliyah texted me?”
I whipped around. “Already?”
Clay’s smirk was that of the Cheshire Cat as he nodded. “Right after lunch on Chart Day.”
“Wow,” I mused, turning back to my closet. “That didn’t take long.”
“All she said was hi.”
“What did you say back?”
“Nothing.”
I whipped around again, holding a black skirt with little white hearts stitched all over it in one hand. “What do you mean, nothing?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t answer.”
“Why on Earth not?”
“Because that’s what she wanted. If I would have answered, she would have known I’m not over her, and that whether or not you and I are together, she still has power over me.” He held up his finger. “But by not answering her, I showed her I’m not bothered in the least by her being here, that I’ve moved on.”
I blinked. “Okay…”
But as I turned back to find the right shoes, I found myself shaking my head and wondering if all these games would ever make sense to me.
“Trust me. I know what I’m doing,” Clay said. “You’ll see after tonight. That is, if you ever pick an outfit.”
I was sifting through my drawer of socks and stockings, and I turned long enough to peg him with a bundled-up pair that made him chuckle.
“Be right back,” I said, disappearing into my bathroom.
Ten minutes later, I came back out to find Clay propped against my headboard reading one of my motorcycle club romances.
“Am I going to have to put these under lock and key?” I plucked the book from his hands, holding it out of reach as he protested.
“With dirty scenes like that? Yeah. Probably.” He waggled his brows. “I saw you put a highlighter tab on the soft choking part…”
My neck burned hotter than it had in my whole life as my eyes nearly popped out of my skull. Without thinking better of it, I reared that book in my hand back and promptly threw it at Clay, who dodged it only by a hair.
“Hey, no shame!” He laughed. “Just info I want to tuck away for later,” he added, tapping his temple.
In a miraculous feat of strength, I sucked in a long breath before smoothly letting it go, holding out my arms. “How do I look?”
Clay swung his legs off the end of the bed and pulled on his sneakers as his eyes made a slow descent from where I’d put a simple black headband over the crown of my curls, to where I’d zipped up the four-inch chunky black boots around my ankles. The white blouse paired with the black skirt perfectly, the hearts a sweet touch, and I’d even been as bold as to tie the ends of the button up just under my chest to show a little midriff as opposed to tucking it in.
I did, however, grab my cream cardigan and throw it over the whole ensemble.
Clay’s eyes lingered on the black knee-high stockings I’d grabbed in a last-minute decision, making me self-conscious enough that I bent my knees together.
Finally, he let out a low whistle, rising to his feet. “This is going to be fun.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why do I get the feeling I should be scared?”
But he only laughed, nodding toward the door. “Come on. We don’t want to be late for your boyfriend’s big show.”
“So, what exactly is the plan here?” I asked Clay as he held the thick metal door open for me, every ounce of light instantly being snuffed out once we dipped inside the bar. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust and note the smiling hostess illuminated only by two small candles.
“Just follow my lead.”
“But what ex—”
I couldn’t get the question out before Clay was leaning his elbows on the hostess stand, offering the slim brunette beauty behind it his signature smirk.
“Good evening,” he said. “Table for two, please. Booth, actually,” he clarified, and winked back at me.
I just stared at him dumbfounded. What difference did it make?
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re booked solid tonight,” the girl said, twirling a strand of hair between her long, onyx fingernails.