OK, I think I’m losing it. Why do I feel like a high schooler with a crush on the quarterback?
My room is a mess before I even halfway figure out what to wear. Clothes are strewn all over the bed and the floor and the chair by the wall.
I don’t want to over-or underdress—why didn’t I ask him last night if I should dress casual?
I try on several different outfits, mixing and matching this and that, until finally settling on my cream-colored dress, with orange, black, and light blue flowers around the waist and the bottom, which stops just above my ankles. I top it off with my matching orange purse—big enough to carry my larger camera—orange sandals, and gold bracelets and matching earrings. I pull my hair into a cute braided bun at the back of my head and leave a few wisps to hang about my face.
And I’m incredibly nervous.
This feels like a date. Yes, I think that’s exactly what this is. I mean, he never said it was a date, and I never said it was a date, but it really does seem like—
My phone chimes, interrupting my rambling thoughts, telling me I have a text message. I check it quickly, automatically thinking it will be Luke, until I realize it’s still pretty early.
Paige: I want details!
I text her back telling her that she’ll get the details if there are any, which I highly doubt because this isn’t a date and—
OK, it’s definitely a date.
And it’s the first date I’ve ever been on where I felt a little nauseous beforehand. Where I can’t think straight and where I actually got up two hours before I’m supposed to meet him, just to get ready. The last guy I dated was lucky enough to get a thirty-minute prep time—I liked to date like any girl, but it was often hard for me because I’ve always been so focused on my career and helping my parents.
Standing in front of the elongated mirror, I turn left and right and spin around to see the back of my summer dress. I adjust the thin half-inch straps over my bare shoulders and lean over forward to see if my girls are on display and if my strapless bra is doing its job. I look down at my turquoise-painted toenails—if anyone can ever accuse me of having an obsession, it’s more likely to be toenail polish than being a workaholic—and I realize they need repainting, light blue to match the blue flowers on my dress.
After that, all I have left to do is wait. I glance at the clock on my phone and sigh miserably—it’ll be a whole hour before Luke gets here—and I thought six seconds was a long time.
Finally the hour is up and … he’s still not here.
I check my phone in case he texted me or called at some point, hopeful that he had. Nothing. Fifteen minutes late and I’m starting to feel like the girl who got stood up at the prom by that stupid quarterback.
My phone chimes in my hand, my heart skipping a few beats.
Luke: Sorry I’m late! I’m almost there. Give me about 10 minutes.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I stand up from the bed and go over to check myself out in the mirror again. Already my face is starting to get oily. Or maybe that’s from my nerves, or sweat from the summer heat. I pat the area between my eyes and around my nose with a square of toilet paper. Geez! I’ve never been so nervous in my life!
I grab my bulky rust-orange leather purse from the bed and shoulder it—no need to make sure I have everything because I’ve already done that about, oh, at least five times: cell phone, wallet, room key, Canon.
I head downstairs to meet Luke in the lobby just as he’s walking through the main doors with his cell phone crushed in his hand. For a moment, as he walks toward me, all I can do is check him out as I’ve only ever seen him in swimming shorts and T-shirts—or shirtless—before. He’s dressed in a pair of light khaki pants with the legs rolled up just above his ankles, and a light blue button-up shirt, loosely tucked behind a belt, with the sleeves rolled tight around his bicep muscles. A pair of casual brown leather loafers dress his feet. A thick brown braided bracelet dresses one wrist. A smile that I find myself becoming addicted to. I swallow nervously; the pit of my stomach swims with a sort of besotted shiver.
I smile brightly to distract from any incriminating evidence of infatuation left on my face.
“Wow,” he says, stepping up to me, beaming. “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I say, unable to hide the blush in my face, and I refuse to waste time trying anymore.
I look him up and down with an investigative gaze. “And look at you,” I say as my eyes slowly find his. “I’m impressed. Truly I am. Didn’t expect that.”
He grins crookedly and it melts me a little inside.
“What, am I not the Abercrombie & Fitch type?”
“No, I guess I just didn’t imagine you in anything—”
“You didn’t imagine me in anything?” He raises a brow and his grin appears more devilish. “So you’re imagining me in the buff already?”
Yes.
“No!” My hand instinctively comes out and play-swats him on the shoulder. My face flushes and I look at the floor, almost able to see my reflection in it, the tile is so clean and shiny. “That’s not what I was going to say.” Laughter rolls out along with my words.
“Sure sounded like it,” he quips. “I didn’t imagine you were such a pervert. Too cute to be perverted, in my opinion.”
I can’t find it in me to think of a witty comeback, so I just stand here with my hands folded together in front of me and wearing an embarrassed smile that covers my whole face.
He changes the mood by looking me up and down with the explorative sweep of his eyes, which makes me blush harder. “But seriously, Sienna, you’re gorgeous.”