My heart glows a bit from the love of a good friend. “Thank you. Maybe I needed to hear that right now.”
“And you need to have some fun tonight.” She peers closer to the screen and points behind me. “Pick that.”
I spin around. “The Ketel One?”
“Yes. Make a Moscow Mule. Get some copper mugs, some limes, and start ripping that lumberjack’s shirt off.”
I laugh. Tristan definitely has the whole tall, strong, and bearded look working for him. “Okay. But why a Moscow Mule?”
She stares sharply at me. “Did you want a dissertation or a decision, Miss I-Can’t-Pick?”
I draw a deep breath, grinning. “A decision.”
She smiles, as satisfied as a cat taking a bath. “Good. Also, the heroine makes a Moscow Mule before the hero comes over, so it’ll help you get in character. Maybe read the scene before you rip off his shirt.”
“I already have, but don’t you worry. I have a plan for making storytime a part of my night.”
I say goodbye and snag the Ketel One along with some ginger beer, lime juice, and a couple of limes, then head to the snack aisle.
There.
I pick up a bag of popcorn. This is just like the time this summer when Amy’s brother gave me his extra Yankees tickets and I brought Tristan with me. He adores the boys of summer, and I made a big event of it, picking up pumpkin seeds and peanuts, and we snacked to our heart’s content as we rooted for the home team.
Nothing like snacks to recalibrate a girl’s pulse.
And to thank a guy for doing her a favor.
I check out, and as I sling the bag over my shoulder, I text Lola, feeling proud of my accomplishment.
Peyton: I have the lube!
Lola: Great. Then why don’t you try out chapter twenty-two, page two hundred?
With cheetah speed, I click open the working doc Amy sent me, scrolling to that page in the manuscript. Last night, I read the scene Amy wants me to reenact, but I didn’t reach page two hundred. I’m betting Lola is sending me down the rabbit hole of some wildly intense sex scene involving toys or places where the sun doesn’t shine.
Instead, I laugh as I enjoy a scene involving door hinges and a handy hero. Literally.
Peyton: Hot damn. He fixed her squeaky door like nobody’s business.
Lola: WD-40 for the win.
Lola: Also, Moscow Mules are fun . . . and you should have some fun during your research. Now, stop talking to me and get ready.
That’s good advice, so I follow it once I’m home.
Even though my clothes aren’t coming off tonight, I shower, primp, and snap a photo of a new lavender lace bra and panty set, with an embroidered butterfly between the breasts and at the top of the undies.
Then I slide into the soft fabric.
I stop in front of the mirror, checking out my reflection, savoring the way the new lace feels against my skin, how the bra boosts my breasts.
I feel like me, but a better version of me. The me who’s turned the corner. The me who no longer hurts because of the past.
I’m a woman starting over.
Maybe not tonight, but that’s who I see. A woman who couldn’t have embarked on this quest a few months ago, or even a few weeks ago.
But I’m ready now—for my business, for Mimi’s legacy, and for me.
I want to be the woman in lavender and lace.
And I can tonight, because I’ve healed.
Because when I open the door, I’ll be opening it to a man I trust. A man who’s willing to do me a favor. I let a smile play across my lips, feeling it deep in my soul.
Turning away from the reflection, I slip into a peacock-blue skirt that hits above the knees and pull on a top the shade of eggplant.
I mix the drinks then find an alt-rock station that seems to be on Tristan’s wavelength, and when he knocks, I yank the door open without hesitation, and there he is, looking . . . wow.
I can say, even without the benefit of the lube known as liquor, the man can wear the hell out of a white button-down and jeans.
Those nerves? They aren’t nerves anymore. They’re something else—the flutter of something new.
Or maybe something I felt long ago and had to let go.
That kiss. That incomparable, knee-weakening kiss, miles ahead of any other kiss.
I play it back, and I can still feel the shivers that radiated down my spine that night.
Ten years later, and that kiss still does it for me, and I have an answer to my question.
How do I feel about undressing him?
I feel excited.
That’s the trouble.
There’s no room for that between us.
But for friendship, there is plenty. After all, this guy is coming through for me, and that means the world to this girl.
“Hey, you!” I say with a grin.
He waggles a gift bag. “I got you something.”
10
Peyton
My best friends know I can be bribed with chocolate.
A mere morsel will convince me to accompany you to that awkward work dinner with colleagues.
A square, and I’ll help lug your bags of old clothes to the Goodwill blocks away.
A whole bar, and I’ll paint your bedroom wall periwinkle. No, you don’t need to help. Sit down, relax, and drink your wine.
When Tristan presents me with not one, not two, but three bars from my favorite chocolate shop in the city, I squeal in delight.
And, even better, he doesn’t need to bribe me.
“These. Are. The. Best.” Glee doesn’t begin to describe my mood right now.
“It’s just chocolate,” he says, amused, as I clutch the bag.
“It’s never just chocolate,” I correct. “It’s my favorite thing in the world. And you also did not have to bring a gift.”
He shrugs a little sheepishly. “It’s nothing.”
That’s where he’s wrong. I set a hand on his arm, stopping his attempt to dismiss his own kindness. At moments like this, I can see the divide between our upbringings sharply—my family is all warm and fuzzy, giving out gifts and hugs with abandon, and his was sterner, the opposite of effusive. “It’s not nothing. I love chocolate. I’m in love with chocolate. Chocolate might be my soul mate, so this is not nothing. And I love that you did this.” I shake the bars of dark chocolate at him till he smiles. And when he does, my heart dances a little jig. “Also, these are Lulu’s Chocolates. They’re decadent and heavenly and delicious . . . and I can’t wait any longer.”
I tear open the wrapper and pop a square of Earl Grey chocolate into my mouth. It melts on my tongue, and I roll my eyes like I’m a chef on TV. “This is what dreams are made of.” I break off a square and hand it to him. “Try it.”
“I was never a chocolate guy.”
“I know you’re a salty, but I swear, you will not regret this sweet,” I say, goading him with a morsel. I want him to experience the goodness of this treat, the richness of the flavors. I want him to feel what I feel, even about chocolate.
“Not my thing,” he says.
“Tristan, this chocolate is conversion-level good. What’s the worst that’ll happen? You’ll hate it and spit it out? Just try it.”