15. CHLOE
15
CHLOE
“Emerson,” I shriek.
“What?”
Her attention drops to the massive white boxes in my hands. My arms barely stretch around the size of them. Their pointed corners are digging into my biceps as I make my way further into her apartment. The bags that were outside her door, seated on top of the boxes, hang off the crook of my elbow.
“What are those?”
“You tell me. They were outside your door when I got here.” With a quick exhale, I set them down on her counter. “There isn’t a note.”
“Hmm.” She stands beside me, fingers twisting the white satin ribbon bowed on top. “I haven’t ordered anything recently.”
We stare at each other, puzzled. “Do you think it’s from Liam? Another camera lens?”
“Camera lenses definitely do not need boxes this big or this nice,” Emerson laughs.
She keeps twirling the ribbon, her mouth pursed.
“Are you considering not opening them?” I ask, watching her cautiously. “You have to open them.”
“I’m. . . I’m nervous. And maybe a little annoyed? I’m not someone whose love can be bought. I never wanted to be that person.”
“You aren’t.”
“If it is from Liam,”—Emerson shrugs, inhaling deeply—“There are added nerves about putting myself out there again with him. And I don’t want him to think that this,” Emerson waves her hand in the air. “Makes it better.”
“Liam doesn’t feel that way. He knows.”
“How does he know that?”
“Besides him texting me to check in on you—”
“He does that?” she whispers. I nod and watch as her demeanor lightens. “Okay, let’s open it.” She beams.
I watch her untie the ribbon and remove the lid. Inside is a stunning sage green dress. Floor length silk with a halter top that ties into a bow. The back, even off her body, is low.
“Where’s my phone? I have to send a picture to Beatrix and Audrey.”
“Wait! You should put it on first.”
Emerson sprints to the bathroom; the smile on her face is from ear to ear. “Will you zip me up?” she hollers.
“Yeah, come here.”
She backs up, not letting me see the front. A hand holding together the top of the zipper. I pull the zipper up, hooking the small silver hook—I’ve never understood why these are needed. They are absolutely a nuisance.
Emerson spins around. “What do you think?”
“You’re beautiful.” I grab her phone off the counter, snapping a picture. “Liam is going to lose his shit when he sees you.”
My phone pings, not even a minute later, with a new group chat.
KEEPING UP WITH THE GIRLS
EMME: *attached photo*
BEATRIX: STFU!! STATES YOU ARE A BABE
BEATRIX: my pre-baby bod didn’t even look that goo d
I add Audrey’s name to the unknown number, already having Beatrix’s. Emerson is typing on her phone.
EMERSON: Excuse me, future MILF
BEATRIX: I’m telling George you called me that first. He’s going to be pissed. GOOD.
AUDREY: *crying emoji*
AUDREY: Liam did good
The group text pings and the three of them go back and forth. I met Beatrix a couple of weeks ago; she’s so hot. I’m unsure why she said she didn’t look that good. She’s probably the hottest pregnant woman ever. Dark brown hair with light caramel skin, legs for days, and a hint of a baby belly with abs. Abs!
“Take it off before you get something on it, spill queen.” Emerson was making food when I arrived. Her body, now close, leaning on the counter where a cutting board is out.
“I will in a minute.” Her fingers firing away on the screen. I move around her to clean up, knowing a minute will be twenty for her. “Uh, Chloe.”
Emerson is wearing a mischievous smile when I spin to face her. The top of the second box is on the counter, a note card in her hands. “I think you’ve been on someone’s mind, too. This one's for you,” she says playfully.
“What?” I snag the note card from between her fingers. “Gimme.”
I flip it over, and in boyish scrawl, it says :
Dais, I know I could never get you out of black, but I thought maybe you should try silver again.
xx, Pretty Boy
My jaw drops, eyes searching around the room for I don’t know what. Emerson rests her chin on my shoulder, reading the card aloud.
“Wanna tell me again that nothing is happening between you two?”
“I swear. Nothing is happening between us.”
Is that true anymore?
Lately, it’s as if everything is happening between us. That Callum Sullivan is the sun in my life. The more I’m around him, the more I’m pulled into his orbit.
There’s curiosity. A need to know more about him, who he is underneath all the clothes and work.
There’s attraction. I can’t deny that. He is handsome, hot, but it is more than that. I’m attracted to the layers he’s revealing, the silent kindness and listening.
There’s a foundation of a friendship. I’ve never been friends with a boy before—not outside of my brothers. Never wanted to be.
“I’ll let you tell me that for now. Now go try this dress on.”
***
“Iknew I’d be right,” his familiar accent rings in my ears.
We didn’t arrive together. We planned to, and I looked forward to those minutes with him, but something hotel came up.
I joked that wasn’t very boyfriend-y of him on the phone. Cal didn’t laugh. Instead there was an awkward pause followed by an apology .
Showing up separately ended up being for the better. I was able to do a load of laundry that I didn’t fold and help Emerson prep her camera equipment.
I take a breath, bite my lip, and try to compose myself before turning around. Slowly, I look over my shoulder, ensuring Callum is watching, and roll my eyes.
He smirks, twirling his pointer finger, asking for me to do a spin.
Intentionally, I turn, letting the fabric that’s already hugging my figure move and glide over my curves more.
“I lied. I was wrong.” He drags a hand over his mouth, clasping his chiseled jaw. “You are even more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.”
“I better not be ugly when you dream about me.”
He laughs, sauntering up to me from where he was leaning against the entryway to the lobby bar. “Who says I dream about you?”
“We both know you do.”
Cal’s tall figure towers over me. When we breathe, our chests brush. He leans down, gently kissing my cheek before his mouth finds my ears. With lips against the sensitive skin, he says, “I will be dreaming about you in this dress and about what’s not underneath it.”
My throat becomes the Sahara. Shifting one ankle over the other to squeeze my legs shut.
“How do you know I’m not wearing anything under?”
“I didn’t, but thank you for confirming it.”
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Dais.”
There’s that nickname again. Daisy or Dais. He started using it a few weeks ago, and whenever he says the endearment, it digs at my heart. He’s inching his way in, and I hate it but love it almost as much.
Cal steps away from me. His mouth is bent into a stupidly handsome crooked smile, with both dimples. His eyes roam down and back up my body. They darken alongside a sharp inhale causing my stomach to do a loopty-loop.
He’s walking away when I call out to him—needing to remain in his proximity.
My mind has been running a marathon all day. Even if he was insinuating more than I can give him right now, I know that being around Callum Sullivan is the calm, the eye of the storm that I don’t only need but want.
“Give me a tour.”
He outstretches a hand to me, and it feels bigger than this moment. Bigger than the hotel. Bigger than buying me a designer dress. Bigger than late-night phone calls. Bigger than picking the spot next to mine at yoga. Bigger than this pending offer to be his fake girlfriend. Bigger than the facades we put on for everyone else in our lives.
Does he feel it too?
I take his hand, trying to accept it with grace and bravery, letting everything underlying between us not be more than it needs to be.