Chapter 20
CINDY
T he mansion still doesn’t feel real. Even after several days, I keep expecting to wake up in my townhouse with General Flufferton judging me for oversleeping and discover this was all some elaborate fever dream.
But here I am, toeing off my work shoes in the entryway of a house that belongs in magazines, listening to Luke talk with excitement.
“Perfect timing!” His hands are clasped together like he’s about to reveal Christmas presents in October. “Costumes are in your rooms. No complaining, no negotiating, no returns. Just get dressed and get back down here before I die of anticipation.”
“What did you do?” I ask, already nervous but also thrilled.
All day at work, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Holt.
His gruff voice in the truck saying my family couldn’t break him.
But more than that, the way his whole face transformed when he picked me up after work.
Pure, uncomplicated joy at seeing me, like I was the highlight of his entire day.
Growing up, no one was ever excited to see me.
Maybe my aunt on the rare occasions I could visit her, but those moments were few and far between, precious because of their scarcity.
My parents saw me as either a disappointment or a commodity to trade for social standing.
Van saw me as property he’d purchased but hadn’t taken delivery of yet.
To have someone’s face light up just because I walked through a door?
It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever experienced.
“Arrow is already up there getting changed,” Luke says, snapping me from my thoughts.
From upstairs, Arrow’s voice carries clearly through the house. “What the fuck is this supposed to be? Luke, I swear to God, if this is some kinky bullshit?—”
“Just put it on,” Luke yells back, cupping his hands around his mouth. “It’s classic Americana!”
“Classic, my ass!”
Holt appears behind me from the doorway. He takes one look at Luke’s expression and groans.
“Please tell me you didn’t do something that’s going to get us arrested for public indecency.”
“Everything important is covered!” Luke protests. “Just go look, big man. Trust me, you’ll love it. Or at least you won’t immediately set it on fire, which is really all I can ask for with you three.”
“Your confidence is overwhelming,” I say, but I’m already heading for the stairs, curiosity winning over caution.
“LUKE!” Arrow’s voice booms again. “Why are these pants made of velvet? Do you know what velvet does to my thighs?”
“Makes them look amazing?” Luke suggests hopefully.
“Makes them look like I’m smuggling hams!”
I rush to my room, pushing open the door to find General Flufferton sprawled across my pillow. He wakes with a chirping meow that sounds accusatory, immediately demanding attention by aggressively headbutting my hand.
“Hello, my precious demon,” I coo, scratching behind his ears the way that makes him purr like a broken motor. “Guess what? Luke got us costumes and—Oh. My. God.”
I actually squeal. Like a teenager-at-a-concert squeal.
Laid out on my bed is a light blue gingham pinafore dress with a white blouse underneath, complete with puffy short sleeves that have tiny pearl buttons.
Ruby red shoes that shine like fresh blood in the lamplight.
White socks with little lace edges that are somehow both innocent and not.
And the pièce de résistance, a small dog-shaped brown handbag.
“He made me Dorothy!” I’m laughing and spinning even though no one can see me except General Flufferton, who appears deeply unimpressed. “That means the guys are—oh, this is going to be hilarious.”
I shut my door and lock it for good measure, then rush to change. Through the walls, I hear the guys complaining but can’t make out their words.
It’s already getting dark outside, past seven, since Holt insisted on stopping for burgers on the way home. We sat in his truck in the local burger joint’s parking lot like teenagers hiding from their parents, special sauce dripping onto napkins neither of us had enough of.
He ate with one hand, scrolled through his phone with the other, occasionally showing me videos of cats being assholes. It was weirdly intimate. Sharing messy food in comfortable silence, him handing me extra napkins without being asked, just knowing I’d need them, was perfect.
Back in the bathroom, I take a quick shower. I towel-dry my hair, then blast it just long enough that it won’t drip, leaving the waves to fall loose.
When I get back to my room, I pause at my underwear drawer.
No one is going to see what I’m wearing. The dress is modest enough, hitting mid-thigh. But still… my fingers hover over the sensible cotton options before drifting to the red lace thong I bought on a whim months ago after Harper dragged me into a clothing store.
The tag is still on.
Not anymore.
“It matches the shoes,” I tell General Flufferton, who’s watching me with those judgmental green eyes. “That’s the only reason. Color coordination is important.”
He slow-blinks, which, in cat language, means either “I love you” or “You’re full of shit.” Knowing him, probably both.
The costume fits perfectly. How did Luke know my size so accurately?
The dress hugs my waist before flaring out, the gingham design somehow both wholesome and flirty.
The blouse buttons properly without gaping at the chest, miracle of miracles.
The shoes fit like they were made for me, and when I do an experimental walk, I don’t immediately fall over.
I do a twirl in the mirror and laugh at myself. I look like Dorothy if Dorothy had grown up, developed curves, and decided Kansas was overrated.
General Flufferton meows at the door, demanding freedom with increasing volume.
“Okay, okay. You’d think I was holding you prisoner.”
I let him out, and he immediately rockets down the hall to Arrow’s partially open door, his tail a flag of feline determination.
“Hey there, Sir Floof.” I hear Arrow’s voice go soft and gooey. “Come to see the disaster Luke created? At least someone appreciates my suffering.”
Smoochy sounds follow, the kind that would ruin Arrow’s dangerous reputation if anyone heard them. For someone who looks like he eats nails for breakfast and has definitely hidden bodies, Arrow turns into absolute pudding around my cat.
Downstairs, I find Luke waiting on the couch.
He’s dressed as the Scarecrow, but makes it fashionable.
Patched pants in various shades of brown and tan that sit low on his hips.
A raggedy jacket, patches and tears revealing his entire torso, held partially closed by a rope instead of a belt.
He’s wearing nothing underneath, just his bare chest with its lean muscle and scattered tattoos.
There’s actual straw sticking out of his sleeves, his collar, even tucked behind his ears.
His hair is styled to stick up in twelve directions like he’s been electrocuted, and somehow it works.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, eloquent as always.
“Right back at you, Dorothy.” He stands, circling me slowly like a predator who’s spotted dinner. “Sexiest Kansas farm girl I’ve ever seen. Makes me want to skip down your yellow brick road. Click your heels three times. Find your Emerald City.”
Then he’s kissing me, backing me against the wall with intent, and coherent thought evacuates the premises.
His mouth is demanding, hungry, tongue sliding against mine.
My knees forget their job. His hands grip my waist through the thin dress, and I moan into the kiss without meaning to.
My fingers tangle in his jacket, pulling him closer, feeling straw scratch against my palms.
Someone clears their throat with the volume and duration of a foghorn.
We break apart to find Arrow and Holt at the bottom of the stairs, and I start laughing so hard I actually snort, which makes me laugh harder.
Arrow is the Cowardly Lion, and he looks simultaneously ridiculous and somehow still intimidating.
Brown velvet pants that definitely make his thighs look powerful rather than ham-like, despite his protests.
A matching brown velvet jacket that’s fighting for its life across his shoulders.
But the collar is a masterpiece of faux fur absurdity, so enormous that it frames his face like a mane made of brown cotton candy.
He looks like a lion who got stuck in a craft store explosion. But it matches his dark blond hair.
Holt is the Tin Man, wearing silver-gray pants and a jacket that looks like someone attacked it with metallic spray paint.
Multiple coats, by the looks of it, some spots darker where the paint pooled.
Silver gloves and painted boots that were definitely black yesterday.
And there’s an actual funnel attached to his head with what appears to be elastic string.
“We look fucking ridiculous,” Holt states flatly, the funnel bobbing when he talks.
“We look amazing!” I counter, still giggling every time the funnel moves. “This is perfect! We’re the whole Wizard of Oz gang! This is genius!”
Arrow groans. “We’re dressed as a children’s movie.”
“A classic film!” Luke protests, throwing his arms wide, which sends more straw flying.
“I look like I lost a bet with a hardware store,” Holt mutters, holding up his silver-gloved hands.
“You look like a sexy robot,” I offer, which has Luke snorting behind me.
“Sexy robot. The pinnacle of masculinity,” Holt says. “Really gets the gears grinding. ‘Oh, baby, upgrade my firmware.’?”
“At least you’re not covered in crushed velvet,” Arrow mutters, dragging a finger under the collar threatening to devour his jawline. “I feel like I’m being slow-roasted inside a limited-edition teddy bear.”
“You make a very regal lion,” I assure him, reaching up to adjust a piece of his mane that has started to wilt. “Powerful. Ready to conquer.”
“I’m supposed to be cowardly,” he replies, brow furrowing. “It’s kind of the whole bit.”