Of course she will.
As soon as the phone boots, I’ll send her a note.
But when my phone beeps on, the first thing I see is a text from Amy blinking at me.
Amy: You saved the day! My boss is so excited about the panty shredder!!!
“Porcupine. Cornhole. Fudgsicle,” I mutter, then gaze at the sky. “What would you do, Mimi?”
In between the chug of a bus and the squeal of a cab, I listen for her reply. There is always a plan B. Just make sure your zipper is zipped and your blouse is buttoned.
As I walk home, I cycle through options.
The delivery guy who drops off packages of silky goodies?
Asking my brother if he or his wife know someone? But they live in Seattle now, so I doubt they’ve kept up on New York single men.
Do I ask the apps?
Trouble is, I don’t know which poison I want to pick.
Before I open the store, I weigh these choices, toying with Tinder and Match and even Boyfriend Material when I’m in the office paying bills.
But I can’t quite pull the trigger. Something feels off about asking for help testing romance novel tropes via an app.
These types of scenarios involve trust.
And there’s someone I trust completely.
How did I miss the obvious? He’s not plan B. He’s plan A, and I should have asked him from the beginning.
I open my texts.
Peyton: Remember that time last night when you said you’d help me with my blog?
Tristan: Why do I feel like you’re about to cash in on that right now?
Peyton: Because I am.
My phone buzzes fifteen minutes later.
The text from Tristan says Knock, knock.
The store doesn’t open for another hour, so I rush from the office, unlock the door, and let him in.
He smells like the fall breeze, and in his jeans and work boots, his pullover shirt hugging his chest, he looks like he’s auditioning for a role on Hardy Men from Alaska.
He drags a hand through his dark hair. “Let me guess. This is when you tell me you want to do the lingerie videos.”
I smack his shoulder, even though he’s not far off. “No. But I’ll call you when I do.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.” He surveys the store, his eyes widening as he takes in the sea of pretty goodies. He points to a red bra. “Maybe write about that one next? That gets my vote.”
“You love red, don’t you?”
“I’m like a bull.”
I can’t resist. I head to the rack, grab the red bra, and wave it like a matador.
He snorts and kicks his foot.
Laughing, I shake my head. “I swear, you must have driven Samantha insane with your lingerie obsession,” I say as I hang the bra back on the rack.
He flinches. “Samantha?”
“Your last girlfriend? Pretty blonde. Ice-blue eyes. Dry sense of humor. Ring a bell? She was the workaholic attorney who drove you crazy because she expected you to be available at midnight to service her.”
“Did I say that bothered me?” he asks wryly.
A plume of jealousy rises out of nowhere. What the hell is that about?
I turn around so he can’t see my face. But that doesn’t change this odd sensation like my shirt is too tight or my skirt is scratchy, when neither is the case at all. But his question leaves me out of sorts. Why the hell am I bothered that Tristan enjoyed sleeping with his ex-girlfriend? I squirm uncomfortably, needing to eject that idea from my brain before it takes hold.
I adjust a pale-pink bra, focusing solely on the here and now, sweeping away images of him with someone else.
“Glad you enjoyed it,” I say with the reserve of a hostess at a fine restaurant.
“What I didn’t enjoy was her expectation that I pay more attention to her than Barrett,” he adds.
I spin away from the rack and look at him again. “Oh. I had no idea that she said that.”
“She was oddly jealous of my little brother.” He lifts his hands in a shrug.
I rein in the sliver of a grin, even though I’m more pleased than I have reason to be. “And I guess that’s why she’s the ex.”
“Indeed it is.” He parks his hands on his hips. “What’s the blog idea? And how can I help? If it involves me lifting heavy boxes, you’re going to owe me lunch, woman.”
I smile—he’s eased my nerves just by being himself. “No boxes. I promise.” I grab his wrist and guide him through shelves of camisoles and undies, bustiers and stockings, marching him to the dressing room area, since it’s a good place to chat.
“Fashion show?” He stretches out his neck before he parks himself on the pink chair in the corner.
“Not exactly. But . . .” I take a deep breath, hoping this goes better than my attempt this morning. “I’m hoping we can test fashion.”
One brow climbs in curiosity. “Explain. Because you should know, I’m not wearing any of that stuff.”
A laugh bursts from my throat. “I know. Of course. Definitely not. The testing would be on . . .” I flutter my fingers toward myself.
He blinks, like something is stuck in his eye. “You? You want to test lingerie with me?”
“Sort of,” I say, my throat dry because this is much harder than I’d thought it would be. Gage’s betrayal did a number on me, and my trust in love, romance, and men is at an all-time low.
I repeat my mantras, though, since I’m trying to move into my future, whatever that entails.
Put yourself out there.
Do the hard things.
Go for it.
“Let me start at the beginning,” I say.
“That’d be helpful because I’m a little lost.”
I park myself on the ottoman, facing him, and I cross my legs. His eyes drift briefly to the black boots that I’ve paired with a short purple skirt.
“We will be testing various kinds of fashion. And their resilience under certain conditions.”
“We?”
I adopt my best sales-y smile. “Well, you know how my good friend Tristan said I should blog again?”
“Smart guy. Also, I read the blog last night. It was . . . interesting.”
Wait till he finds out what I’m about to hit him with next. Deep breath. “And I need to take it a step further,” I say, pushing out the next words. “Amy needs someone to test out a few tropes from romance novels to go along with a book she’s publishing, and I volunteered as tribute.”
The look on his face is inscrutable. “What sort of things?” Each word comes out like it occupies its own latitude and longitude.
“I’m starting with lingerie stuff, and I was going to ask this guy at yoga class—”
“A guy at yoga class?” His tone could slice a statue.
“There’s this nice guy at yoga. He always puts out a mat for me. And you know how Amy and Lola have been telling me to put myself back out there and try again?”
Tristan nods crisply, his jaw set.
“I decided to try, and I started to ask him out, thinking maybe it would be just what I needed. Oops. Turns out he’s involved with the instructor, and I need someone I can practice ripping a shirt off of who’ll also rip off my panties.”