I’m in the middle of constructing the breakfast sandwiches when she comes into the living room wearing a pair of tight black pants and a maroon tank top. Fuck, she’s so pretty, so pretty it’s painful. When she spots me in the kitchen again, she pauses and adjusts the earring she’s trying to put in.
“Morning,” I say to her, my heart pounding a mile a minute.
She smiles. “Good morning. Did you make me breakfast again?”
“I did.” Pride beams through me. “How do you feel about breakfast sandwiches?”
“I feel very positive about them.” She walks up to me, her perfume creating a goddamn vise-like grip around my chest, constricting it. “Are you feeling better from last night?”
“Yeah.” I reach out and take her hand in mine. So soft, so perfect for mine. “Sorry about the way I reacted. Huxley told me some bullshit that I have to deal with tonight and it put me in a bad mood. I shouldn’t have responded that way, especially since we were having such a good time.”
“What’s tonight—oh, you have to go to that mayor’s ball thing, right?”
“Yeah, I do. Fancy event with a bunch of people I have to talk to.” I press our palms together. “But, I was thinking—”
“Do you know what you’re wearing?” she asks. “A ball gown, I hope.” She wiggles her brows, causing me to chuckle.
“Yeah, it’s being dry-cleaned as we speak. I pick it up at noon.”
“You must show me pictures when I get back from my date,” she says as she releases my hand and walks over to the coffeemaker, grabbing herself a mug.
I can feel all the color completely drain out of my face, leaving me ashen, anguished . . . shook.
Date . . .
Fuck, she has that date set up with Dave Toney’s brother. I completely forgot about it. After the two nights we spent together, is she still going on that? Hell, a part of me thought that maybe she wouldn’t. That maybe she’d set him aside, give me a chance.
Evidently, that was a stupid assumption. What do you think, dickhead? You’re the one who has pushed that your time together is simply a short-term companionship. She wants long-term love. Fuck.
I grip the back of my neck, this new emotion bubbling up inside me, piercing my chest, constricting my lungs.
“Still, uh, still going on that date?” I stammer out, my mind whirling.
Oblivious to the multitude of emotions racing through me, she starts her coffee pod and turns toward me, her hands on the counter. “Yes, and I’m nervous. What should I wear?”
One of those hideous peasant dresses from Target.
Fuck!
Don’t wear anything, instead stay here with me.
Cancel the date.
See me . . . Kelsey.
Fucking see me.
But the confession is lost on my insecure tongue, and instead of voicing what I really want to tell her, I turn away and mumble, “What you’re wearing is fine.”
Why did I think she wasn’t going to go on that date? Maybe because the last two nights, things have almost felt like . . . we’ve been on dates. Yeah, I told her they were time spent with her short-term companion, but I still thought maybe she felt something, a connection.
Last night I wanted to show her a good time, I wanted to show her that we could have fun together, not just bicker. I wanted to show her I could be someone she could depend on. Someone who fulfills what she’s looking for.
The light touches.
The interesting conversation.
The self-deprecating stories.
I fucking tried last night, until Huxley called.
Fucking Huxley. I never should’ve answered the phone.
“I can’t wear this on a date,” Kelsey says as if I suggested the most preposterous thing ever. “It’s business attire.”
“Aren’t dates like business at first, though?” I ask as I finish stacking her plate with food. I don’t bother taking it over to the table, but leave it on the counter for her and head to the table with my plate.
“Uh, they aren’t for me. Not sure how you treat a date, but they’re supposed to be fun and exciting, a separate part of your day, something to look forward to. If I wear this outfit, I’ll just be reminded of work. Plus, I like wearing dresses on dates.”
She didn’t wear a dress when we went out.
Because it wasn’t a fucking date, you idiot.
Could’ve been, if you were able to actually tell her how you feel.
“I don’t want to be too fancy, though,” she continues, really driving what feels like a knife into my back. I know I have no right to feel this way, but I can’t control it. All I can think about is how this girl, whom I’ve crushed on for a bit now, is going out with someone else after I’ve attempted to show her how I could be someone she might like. “Get this, you’re going to laugh.” Doubtful. “He’s taking me to the Crab House. Can you believe that?”