I cover my eyes with one hand. What the hell was I thinking? Why did I agree to go out with Nicholas? It’s going to be a total shit-show.
The last date I went on was at a Laundromat. Not even kidding.
Our washing machine broke and I spent four nights making flirty eye contact and small talk across the folding table with a super-cute guy. On the fifth night, he bought me a slice of pizza, then we made out on top of the heavy loaders during the spin cycle. It was only after, when I noticed the floral comforter, bras and panties in his colors wash, that he admitted to having a live-in girlfriend. Bastard. Six months later and I still can’t look at a bottle of Clorox without feeling dirty.
Marty gently pulls my hand down from my eyes. He taps my nose—and smiles.
“But I know somebody who does.”
Turns out, Bibbidy, Marty’s oldest younger sister, has a new job as a receptionist at City Couture—a high-end fashion magazine. Which means she has the keys to the kingdom, also known as the Sample Closet: a mythical, magical, warehouse-sized room filled with dresses and gowns of every shade, size, and style, as well as shoes to match and every accessory known to man. All of which Bibbidy can use when she’s on the clock—and after—as long as her “dragon-lady boss who makes Cruella De Vil look stable” doesn’t find out.
She agrees to take the risk for me—and I’m not sure I’m okay with that.
But Marty assures me she owes him big time—something about making up for crashing his beloved-but-piece-of-shit Chevy Nova in high school.
And that’s why Bibbidy Ginsberg shows up at our apartment forty minutes later, her arms laden with dresses and bags. And that’s how, an hour after that, I end up wearing an Alexander McQueen light blue, sleeveless dress with a cut-out back that falls a few inches above my knee. It makes me feel pretty. Still me—comfortable—but an elegant, polished version of me.
Ellie flatirons my hair into a long, black shiny curtain, while I do my makeup—a bit of powder, a hint of blush, three coats of mascara, and a muted red lipstick that highlights the shape of my mouth Nicholas seems to like so much.
“These will be perfect!” Bibbidy exclaims, waving a pair of obsidian high-heeled ankle boots around like a magic wand.
“Mmm-hmm.” Marty approves. “Fuck-me boots if I ever saw ’em.”
“I can’t wear those,” I try to protest. “I’ll break my neck. There’s still snow on the ground.”
“You’re going from the coffee shop to the car,” my sister counters. “You’re not walking the Appalachian Trail, Liv.”
Bibbidy points to my laptop—still open to Nicholas’s delicious picture. “My brother wasn’t messing with me—that’s who you’re going out with?”
I have to fight to not sigh like a dreamy schoolgirl.
“That’s him.”
She enjoys another look.
“Oh honey, you are definitely wearing the fuck-me boots.”
And that settles that.
Twenty minutes later, I wait alone in the coffee shop—standing, so the dress doesn’t wrinkle. The room is dim, illuminated only by the muted overhead lamp above the counter and a few twinkling battery-operated candles on the tables near the window.
I close my eyes. And swear to myself that I’ll remember how this feels. This moment. This night.
Because I’m right on the edge—standing on that thrilling, wonderful precipice where everything is perfect. Where the dreams flickering through my head of how tonight will go are flawless—my witty, irresistible banter, Nicholas’s sexy chivalry, our funny flirtations. We’ll laugh, we’ll dance—we’ll share a good-night kiss. Maybe more.
I’m Dorothy gazing down at the Emerald City.
I’m Wendy rising in the air after my first pinch of pixie dust.
I’m…I laugh to myself…I’m Cinderella, stepping into her coach to go to the ball.
And even if this night is all there is, I won’t forget it; I’ll hold this memory close. Savor it, cherish it. It will make the hard times just a little easier, the lonely moments just a little less cold. When Ellie leaves for school, when I’m making pies before dawn in the kitchen day after day, I’ll remember this feeling and I’ll smile. This will get me through.
I open my eyes.
Nicholas is on the other side of the coffee shop door, watching me through the glass. His eyes are warm and wild, a heated jungle green. And then, slowly, he smiles, broad and big, dimples coming out to play. My chest constricts with unexpected emotion. And my own smile comes unbidden, easy—because it all just feels so good.
He walks through the door, stopping a few feet in front of me, both our gazes consuming each other. His black dress shoes are shiny—and I wonder if someone polished them before he came. I’ve never dated someone who gets his shoes shined. His slacks are charcoal and perfectly fitted—the shape of strong, lean thighs visible as he moves—with the hint of outline of what must be a magnificent cock teasing through the fabric.
I try to hide that I’m looking. But I am.
His tapered shirt is silver-gray—no tie—the top two buttons open at the neck, and my fingers rub together, itching to touch him there. A black sports jacket covers the shirt, sharp and expensive looking. There’s a dusting of dark stubble across his jaw, and I want to touch him there too. The combination of five o’clock shadow and rebel strands of brown hair that fall over his forehead give him a roguish, wicked look that makes my bones feel liquid and my breasts suddenly heavy and tingling.