7. Date Night
7
Roxy
It’s date night, and there are outfits strewn all over my room. I’ve been trying on dresses for the last half-hour, taking pictures in my mirror so I can text them to the girls to get their opinions.
I huff out a breath and plop down onto my bed to send the photos. Despite my many wardrobe changes, I can’t seem to drum up much excitement for this date. I don’t know why. Trace Harrison is good looking, successful, and if our conversations prove anything, he’s friendly. Personable.
But there’s no fluttering of butterfly wings in my belly. No nerves, at all. It feels like I’m going through the motions because I feel like I should.
I can lie to everyone else, but not myself. I downloaded the dating app and started talking to Trace for one reason, and one reason only.
And that reason’s name is Miles Blake.
I need a distraction. Someone else to hold my attention until Miles and I settle into the friendship I insisted on. I know keeping things platonic is the right thing to do, but my fucking body didn’t get the damn memo. It sparks to life every time I’m near him. Hell, every time I think of him, if I’m being honest.
And I need it to stop.
I finish uploading the photos and send them to the girls through our group chat thread.
Me: Which one? I can’t decide.
A couple of minutes go by before the first response comes through.
Skye: I like the black one.
Hadley: It’s a first date. You should try to go more conservative. You know, in case he’s a creep.
I chuckle at Hadley’s predictable response. When we went shopping for a dress for Tessa to wear to a team party with Riggs, I picked out a dress very similar to the one in question, only in red. Hadley said, and I quote, “There’s a fine line between looking sexy and looking like a hooker.”
Skye: Don’t be such a prude, Had. She looks sexy as hell in it.
Hadley: I’m not a prude, and she looks just as sexy in the blue one.
Skye: That one barely shows any skin.
Tessa: Sorry, I was…busy. I agree with Hadley. Don’t wear the handkerchief on a first date with a stranger.
Skye: Boo. Go back to polishing Riggs’ knob. I got this.
Tessa: I was not. *tongue emoji*
Skye: Ooh, even better. Get it, QB!
Hadley: Jesus, Skye.
Tessa: That was meant to be me, poking my tongue out at you like a brat.
Skye: Sure.
Laughter bubbles out of me as I read each text message as it pops up on the screen. I quickly tap out my own message, hoping to intervene before the conversation goes completely off the rails.
Me: What about the green one?
The dress in question has long sleeves and a boat-shaped neckline. It hugs my body deliciously, the hem reaches the tops of my knees, and the color looks great with my hair and makes the golden flecks in my brown eyes pop.
Hadley: I love that one on you.
Skye: It’s hot, too. I say go for it.
Tessa: Agreed. Have fun tonight!
Me: Thanks, besties. I’ll text you later and let you know how it goes.
I hop off the bed and pluck the green dress from the pile on the mattress. I’ve already showered, shaved, and dried my hair into soft waves, and I’m wearing my nicest strapless bra with the matching panties.
I pull the dress over my head and smooth it down my body before pulling on a pair of black strappy heels. I’m searching through my closet for a wrap or something to ward off the winter chill while I’m outside when my phone chimes with another text.
Walking back to the bed, I pick up the phone, expecting to see another message from one of the girls. My heart bounces up into my throat when I read the notification.
New text message from Miles Blake.
We ended up trading numbers during the bowling outing, but this is the first time either of us has used them. Tapping the screen, I read the message.
Miles: What are you up to tonight?
I contemplate lying, then shrug and type out the truth. Friends don’t lie to each other.
Me: I actually have a date.
Miles: Nice. What are you wearing?
Me: Seriously?
Miles: Shit. I just read that out loud. I’m not trying to be skeezy.
Me: Are you sure? Because it sounds like it. *winky face emoji*
Miles: I just want to help. That’s what friends do. Now, send me a pic of your outfit so I can give you my honest opinion.
I stare at my phone screen for several long beats, my lips twisting to the side as I consider his words. Having a man’s perspective actually wouldn’t be so bad. And he’s right. We are friends, and didn’t I just send pictures to my other friends to get their opinions?
Making the decision, I move in front of my full-length mirror. I pop out a hip, then groan, straightening my spine to face the reflection squarely. Then I turn to the side, frown, and turn to the other side.
Jesus.
I’m not shooting a spread for a magazine cover, here. Gritting my teeth against the urge to look a sexy as possible, I slide one foot forward a couple of inches, shift slightly to the side, force a smile, and snap a shot of my reflection. I refuse to let myself critique it and pull my message thread with Miles up before tapping the screen to send the picture.
Walking back over to the bed, I sit on the edge and stare at my phone as I wait for a response. The little text under the photo says “Read,” so I know he’s looking at it. Why is my heart speeding up? Why are my fingers gripping the device so tightly, my knuckles are white?
This is ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.
Just as I decide to toss the phone aside, the three little dots pop up. He’s responding.
I hold my breath.
The dots disappear, and I deflate. Looking across the room, I stare at my reflection once more. I look good, right? The girls said I do.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
I hate doubting myself, and I’ve never let a man’s opinion become this important to me before. What in the hell is happening to me?
My phone vibrates in my hand as it chimes my message notification, and I nearly drop the damn thing, it startles me so badly. Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I focus on the message.
Miles: Roxy…you look magnificent.
My smile grows so wide, my cheeks hurt.
Me: Thanks, friend.
When I arrive at Armstrong’s, I greet the hostess before winking and reminding her that she doesn’t know me. She gives me a thumbs up, then her smile drops.
“If you need rescuing, catch my eye. I’ll be there in a jiffy to tell you someone’s on the phone for you, and it’s an emergency.”
Before I can question why she thinks I’d need rescuing, she takes off, leading me through the tables. I spot my date from several yards away, and my steps falter. Trace Harrison is already here.
And he’s wearing athletic pants, a hoodie, and a backwards baseball cap.
What. The. Fuck.
This guy is supposedly a lawyer, insisted on taking me to the nicest restaurant in town, and he shows up looking like he’s hanging out in his parents’ garage? I run my hand down the front of my dress and take a deep breath.
Fuck it. I look magnificent, and I’m going to own it.
As I approach the table, Trace looks up at me. I stop next to my chair and give him a forced smile. One corner of his mouth ticks up and his muddy brown eyes flare wider as they drop down to my chest.
He’s basically eye-fucking me at this point, and bile starts to gurgle in my stomach. I should feel beautiful, having a handsome guy like him show so much interest, but with this being our initial interaction, the ick-factor is off the charts.
I clear my throat, and his eyes move slowly back up to meet mine, but he doesn’t move to get up to pull my chair out or to even greet me politely.
Great. This is off to an awesome start. What happened to the charming guy I video chatted with?
“You look good enough to eat,” he says by way of a greeting as I pull my own chair out and slide into it.
“Uh…thanks. You look…comfortable,” I say, mumbling the last word.
Trace barks out a laugh and runs a hand over the top of his hat. “Oh, yeah. I insist on being comfortable. First dates are hard enough without the stiff, scratchy suit, you know?”
“Tell that to these shoes,” I murmur, but before he can respond, our waiter, John, approaches.
He twists away from Trace and arches a brow at me, and I give him an almost imperceptible shake of my head. He rolls his eyes and turns back to face the table fully.
“Can I start you off with some wine? We have an excellent house white, or if you prefer, I can give you a wine list to peruse.”
“We’ll have a pitcher of light beer. Two glasses,” Trace says before I can respond with my own drink choice.
John’s lips tighten. “I apologize, sir, but we do not offer beer by the pitcher, and I’m afraid we don’t have any light beer on tap. I can offer you a glass of pale ale, or we have a nice pineapple IPA. Or if you’d like something darker, we offer a delicious chocolate stout.”
Trace’s face twists in disgust, then he heaves a sigh. “We’ll have two of the pale ales, I guess.”
“Actually,” I intervene before John can turn away, “I’d like a vodka soda with a twist, please.”
I’m going to need some real alcohol to get through this date.
John nods at both of us, assuring us he’ll have our drinks right out before turning and striding away. I watch him go, then steel myself before turning to look at Trace. As predicted, he’s staring at my breasts again.
“So, uh, how’s your week going so far?” I ask awkwardly when he continues to stare as he tugs his bottom lip into his mouth.
Slowly, he lifts his gaze to mine.
Okay, when I see hot guys making thirst-traps online, this is the sort of thing that totally gets my motor running. But experiencing it, in person, from a guy who put zero effort into prepping for this date and can’t seem to stop ogling my tits long enough to actually converse with me?
A shiver runs down my spine.
“It’s been decent. Finalized two divorces and made sure my clients didn’t get raped by their money-grubbing ex-wives.”
I lower my chin and look at him with wide eyes. Did he really just say that?
“Well, congratulations, I guess,” I murmur.
He nods, but doesn’t respond. Doesn’t ask me how my week has been going. Doesn’t say anything as he continues to make my skin crawl with the incessant eye-fucking.
I almost hop up and hug John when he appears with our drinks. Taking my glass with a heartfelt thanks, I chug down half of it as Trace takes his beer without a word. Lifting it to his nose, he sniffs it with a grimace before setting it aside.
“We’re ready to order.”
Excuse me? I haven’t even looked at the menu, yet. I mean, I don’t need to. I know it by heart. But Trace doesn’t know that.
“We’ll have an order of hot wings with bleu cheese and ranch to start,” Trace says with utter confidence.
John meets my gaze with a wide-eyed stare, then looks back at Trace. “I must apologize again, sir, but we do not offer hot wings. Would you like a few more minutes to peruse the menu?”
Trace huffs and, without responding to John, looks at me. “You want to just get out of here? We can pick up some wings on our way to your place.”
My head rears back. “Excuse me? I never invited you to my place.”
“That dress says differently.” I gasp, and he rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t try acting all offended. You obviously wore it to turn me on. Congrats. It worked. I’m ready to fuck you now.”
I stand up so fast, my chair screeches across the floor behind me. My hands clench into fists as I decide whether I want to tell him off, slap him, or some combination of both with an added kick to the nuts.
“Is there a problem here?”
I stumble to the side as the voice startles me, and a quick hand darts out to clutch my arm, steadying me.
“Miles?” I breathe soundlessly.
But he’s not looking at me. He’s staring down Trace like he wants to strangle him to death while still keeping a firm grip on my arm. Relief floods through me, and even in this tense situation, I can’t help but notice how handsome he looks in his three-piece suit. He’s not wearing a tie, and the top two buttons of his dress shirt are undone to reveal a peek of his firm chest.
“Who the fuck are you?” Trace demands, pulling my attention back to the problem at hand as he leaps to his feet.
His cockiness fades a bit, though, when he realizes Miles is at least four inches taller than him and is carrying about forty more pounds of solid muscle.
“Come on, Roxy. Let’s go,” Trace says, reaching for me.
I suddenly find myself behind Miles as he says, “She’s not going anywhere with you, dickhead.”
Miles widens his stance, and Trace backs up a step. “I’ll sue you if you touch me, asshole.”
“And my friend here will sue you for sexual harassment if you don’t get the fuck out of here, right now.”
We’re causing a scene. At my place of work. But I remain frozen, unable to tame the awe flowing through me at Miles’ protective behavior.
“She has no grounds for that,” Trace argues.
I see Miles’ shoulders lift and drop. “Even if we lose, we win when your reputation goes down the toilet, and you have to get a job at a sports bar for the free wings.”
Wait. How does he know about the wings? Was he eavesdropping?
“Fuck this. This bitch isn’t worth it.”
With that, Trace spins on a heel and stomps away. Before I can react, Miles is guiding me back down into my chair and pushing it forward. Then, he glides around the table, slides into Trace’s deserted seat, and picks up the menu.
“So, what sounds good tonight?”