Now I remember why I invited Vonnie . . . or why I didn’t fight when she invited herself. Because giddy Vonnie is the best Vonnie. It’s one thing to have a friend. It’s another thing completely to have a friend who gets more excited for the good things happening in your own life than you do. That’s what these women do. In our group, we celebrate joys and mourn losses, and we do it together and authentically.
And right now, my joy includes hot freaking shoes and a—nearly impossibly—hotter man.
Vonnie closes her eyes and uses the deep breathing techniques Charli is always pushing on us to school her features into a mask of perfectly crafted disinterest.
“Oh, hey, Max,” she says right before my bedroom door closes behind her.
I don’t bother counting to thirty. Not because I’m ignoring Vonnie’s instructions, but because I’m so nervous that I lose count after seven. Instead I move to the mirror, in need of an Issa-style pep talk, but when I look in the mirror, I forget that too.
I barely recognize myself. My hair that is usually pulled into either a ponytail or a bun is falling in long waves down my back with pieces pulled into a braided ropelike crown. Aviana killed the cat eye and lined my lips to perfection. The body-hugging pencil skirt paired with the billowing blouse with maybe one too many buttons undone gives my curveless body the appearance of Jessica Rabbit—well, maybe not quite, but a girl can dream! And then my shoes. Some girls think a crown goes on their head, but my crowning glory is on my feet. I squeeze my eyes tight and turn on a red sole to the door. I may have lost track of time, but not enough to forget that Vonnie is liable to barge in and drag me out by my ear at any second.
“What even is a hashtag? Back when I was a kid that was a pound sign . . . or a tic-tac-toe board,” I hear Vonnie say on the other side of the door.
I pull open my door. “Oh my god. We are not old enough to talk about the good old days, do not age us like that.”
Vonnie’s shenanigans—does saying “shenanigans” age me?—distract me from the task at hand so much that I don’t even look at Maxwell right away. Not until I hear his sharp intake of breath and the air around me becomes supercharged.
“Jesus, Brynn. You look . . . I mean, you’re always beautiful, but wow.” He stumbles over his words, and somehow the stumbling makes everything he’s saying even more meaningful. “How’d I get this lucky?”
And with that, my abused head, glued and ripped eyelashes, and my underwire-tortured breasts are all worth it. Not to mention, he looks fucking phenomenal too.
“Well, you kids have fun tonight.” Aviana moves behind me, pushing me into Maxwell, then pushing us both out of my door. “Be safe! Wear your seat belts and condoms!”
“Especially the condoms.” Vonnie hands me my purse. “I’m done having kids and I don’t need some mini Maxwells convincing me to open the baby shop back up.”
My jaw drops to the ground as heat fills my face. I don’t know why they wasted their time on blush when they planned on doing this the entire time.
Fucking Lady Mustangs.
Twenty-eight
We walk down the stairs of my condo complex in silence.
I’m not sure if it’s because negative five seconds into the date Maxwell is already regretting it, or if he’s just waiting until my face returns to its regularly scheduled hue.
When we reach his car, he opens the door for me like the old-fashioned gentleman he is before moving to the driver’s side door.
“I’m so sorry about that,” I blurt as he reverses out of the parking spot. “Vonnie was there when the shoes were delivered and I couldn’t ditch her after that. I know they love me, but I think they get some sick pleasure out of embarrassing me.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” His gaze stays focused on the road in front of him, but his hand drops from the steering wheel and finds its way to my knee. “Vonnie has put me on the spot many times. You’ve never come to training camp, but I swear she goes out of her way to say something humiliating right in front of the press.” His chest starts to shake with laughter. “The training camp when Poppy started seeing TK, she dragged TK next to me and asked Poppy if she was sure she liked white chocolate or if she was getting a craving for dark.”
My eyes damn near fall out of my head. I wish I could say I didn’t believe it, but I do. I so do. “What did Poppy do?”
“She stuttered and stared for a solid five minutes. TK started to think she was having a stroke and picked her up and carried her off the field.” Poor Poppy. “Then as I was signing autographs, I lost count of how many women told me they craved dark chocolate all the time and slipped me their numbers.”
“Oh shit!” I choke, trying to hold back my laughter.
I’m only successful for a few seconds. Tears fall down my face, testing the adhesive power of the false lashes Aviana spent almost an hour applying. “I’m sorry,” I say, wiping the tears off of my face. “I shouldn’t laugh.”
His fingers tighten around my leg. “There’s not a single sight more beautiful than you laughing.” All the humor in his voice has fled.
Ho. Lee. Shit.
“I . . . I . . .” My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water trying to come up with something to say. “Thank you?”
Maxwell smirks and glances at me from the corner of his eye. “You’re very welcome.” Then, praise baby Jesus, he turns into a parking garage and gives me the perfect topic change.
“You never told me what we’re doing tonight.” I stare out the window. I know it’s just a parking garage, but something about this parking garage is super familiar, I just can’t quite put a finger on why.
“We’re almost there. Why spoil the surprise now?”
“Because surprises are the worst.” I poke my bottom lip out, a move Ace helped me perfect.
“Really? Because Angela told me you seemed very happy signing for your shoes.” He raises a single eyebrow.
Dammit, Angela. What kind of traitor—
I look down to my beaded, bedazzled, embroidered feet, and my bravado fades. That lovely woman brought me my shoes. She’s an angel on earth.
“Shoes don’t count. So unless this is a fancy sneaker warehouse, I’ll like this better if you tell me in advance.”
He glances at his phone before pulling into a reserved parking spot. “I guess that’s a risk I’m going to have to take.”
Ugh.
Men.
He grabs my purse from the ground of the back seat for me and gets out of the car. He hands it to me and links our hands together when I meet him behind the car. The parking spot he took is right next to a door, and before we even reach it, a man in a navy suit is opening the door.