Chapter Fourteen
Fourteen
Michelle
Abigail and Lauren are both digging through my closet, casting me horrified looks.
“It’s like she only has work clothes.”
“What else would I have?” I ask, annoyed. “You both know how much time my job takes up. Well, Abigail, you do, at least.”
In fact, right now, I’m typing out a work email as fast as I can.
“Who are you texting?” Abigail asks huffily.
“Mark Adely,” I tell her, checking the attachment’s numbers for the millionth time. “And I’m not texting him. He emailed me some action items I have to respond to.”
“That’s the new owner, right? He needs to get a life. It’s the weekend.”
“Hurtful,” I tell her, tapping out the response to Mark’s last question, which I’ve already answered twelve times. God, I’m so tired of having to deal with him. Part of me thinks he’s constantly quadruple-checking my work just to get me to quit.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as I slide the phone face down onto the bed.
I wouldn’t mind sliding face down onto my bed, either.
“I got the feeling work took up a lot of time,” Lauren tells me gently. “But I don’t only own workout clothes.” She gestures to her outfit, which is casual and put together and effortlessly sexy.
Abigail likewise looks perfect for a karaoke date.
Not date, I mentally correct myself. A group lesson on chilling the fuck out.
“Do we have to go?” I whine. “What if we just go to Abigail’s house and watch movies and eat cheese? Doesn’t that count as chilling out? Cheese? Cheesing out?”
Abigail and Lauren both turn around, giving me twin looks of despair and irritation before turning back to my closet.
A closet that, like the rest of my apartment, is teeny tiny and stuffed with nice but affordable items. Furniture refinished and bought from local resale shops. A couch that’s been reupholstered twice. Clothes I buy from designer secondhand sites.
It’s all nice, it’s all functional, and I bought it all to be sensible.
Saving money is as much my addiction as working is. I keep thinking that if I can just grow my little nest egg, I’ll be happy. I’ll be in control. Then, once I’m in control, I can focus on other things.
Like not working all weekend. Like being happy. I groan, flopping face down onto the bed.
“What if she just wears her work clothes?” Lauren muses.
“No.” Abigail sounds scandalized.
“Okay.” My voice is muffled by my comforter.
“You can’t wear a work outfit out to a bar,” Abigail argues.
“Why not?” I lift one shoulder, bunching up the quilt around me. “I’ve done it before.”
“It’s a Saturday,” Abigail tells me despairingly. “We’re supposed to be going out and having fun, which means we aren’t going out and looking like we’re preparing our taxes all at once.”
“Okay.” Lauren claps her hands. “We’re going to do jeans and a top or—”
“Ooh, wait,” Abigail says, pulling out one of the few impulse purchases I possess. “This. This is it.”
I roll over, then tilt my head. “I forgot I had that,” I admit.
The shapeless, colorful blob hangs over a pants hanger.
“You’re going to ruin it like this,” Abigail tells me, casting a critical eye on the garment. “Vintage Missoni? This is a crime.”
I throw up my hands.
“It still has the tag on it,” Lauren exclaims, holding up said tag.
They both give me looks full of disappointment.
“Don’t make me regret this,” I say primly.
“Put it on,” Abigail insists, tossing the dress at me. “We have less than twenty minutes to get you ready.”
“You really don’t need to get me ready.”
Lauren and Abigail share another exasperated look.
Yeah, that’s getting old.
“Okay, Corporate Barbie. We get it. Your only job is office.” Abigail claps her hands, making me jump. “But tonight, we’re going out with you, we’re your friends, and we want to look hot. We want you to look hot, and we want to have a drink and sing silly songs and look good doing it, okay?!”
She delivers this speech with the intensity of a drill sergeant on their sixth cup of espresso, and I blink at her, slightly terrorized.
“Okay,” I agree. As if I’d say anything else.
“Shoes?” Lauren asks, sorting through my heels until she pulls out a pair of over-the-knee boots I wore once in college and couldn’t bear to part with.
“Perfect,” Abigail agrees. “Get dressed.”
They both walk out of the room, giving me a modicum of privacy as I rummage through my drawers until I find the right bra to wear with the bright, patterned sweater dress.
It slides on easily, a bit tighter than it was when I first bought it, but a critical look in the mirror tells me it looks better snug.
Damn it. They were right. The saturated wash of colors sets off my dark hair and eyes, brightening up my skin that’s spent too much time under fluorescent lighting.
“Are you decent?” Abigail yells through the door not a minute later, and I nod to my reflection.
“Yep,” I call back.
Both women make noises of approval as I open the door.
“Half up?” Lauren asks Abigail.
“Or down,” Abigail tells her.
“I can do my own hair and makeup.” I roll my eyes, but I secretly love that they’re fussing over me. It’s nice to feel special.
“You’ll wear it in a bun. You almost always do.”
“Fine,” I tell her, highly annoyed and immediately discarding the notion that being fussed over is nice. “Half up, then.”
I don’t like having my hair in my face—I never have—but they’re right. The off-the-shoulder dress shows a lot of skin, and wearing my hair down will make it look less fussy and formal.
“What if the guys are all wearing sweatpants?” I ask.
“Who gives a fuck what they’re wearing?” Abigail says, her fingers making quick work of a teensy little boho braid at my temple. “We’re dressing for us, not them.”
“Unless…” Lauren says, dragging out the s.
“Unless what?” I ask her, pulling on a thin pair of socks to go under the boots.
“Unless you’re hot for one of them,” Abigail finishes for her, pinning back pieces of hair.
“Gross. I work with them.” Heat flashes through me, though, because she’s nailed it. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Tristan. The way he held me on Friday morning, moving me out of the way.
The way he texted me, outrageously flirtatious, on Friday afternoon.
The way he keeps calling this a date, when we both know it’s not.
“Oh shit,” Lauren says. “Look at her face.”
I glare at her as Abigail bends down, scrutinizing.
“You’re blushing.”
“I don’t blush. It’s hot in here.”
“You’re full of shit,” Abigail announces, tugging another piece of hair into place and pinning it against my scalp.
“That would make tonight uncomfortable,” I tell her.
“I could get you an acai bowl for that.” Lauren winks outlandishly.
I snort.
“Which one?” Abigail presses.
“None of them,” I say. “God, getting you two together was a horrible idea.”
“Or maybe you needed a push, and that’s why you did it. Because you secretly want us to bully you.” Abigail threads her fingers through my hair, finishing up.
“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” I tell her, laughing a little.
“Stupid, but you’re not denying it.”
“I want you both to be my friends,” I say honestly. “That’s why. Bullying wasn’t part of it—”
“And friends bully each other into being better,” Lauren says peppily.
“Mmm, I don’t think that’s quite right,” Abigail says with a laugh. “But it will do for tonight. Consider yourself bullied into Missoni.”
I hold in a relieved sigh, glad they’re not pestering me about who I have a crush on anymore.
A knock sounds at my door, and at the same time, my phone buzzes on the table where it’s charging.
“It’s Tristan. You better not be worming out of this, wormy. I’ll drag you to karaoke if I have to.” His voice is muffled by the door, but we all hear him loud and clear. “I’ll sit you on my lap and work you like a ventriloquist’s puppet, Oxford!”
“Oh shit, she’s blushing again,” Lauren says, clapping a hand over her mouth.
“Tristan Gold?” Abigail’s mismatched eyes—one hazel and one green—are huge in her face. “That’s who you have a crush on?”
Just like that, the jig is up.
I groan, dropping my face into my hands. “It’s stupid, isn’t it?”
“No.” Abigail shakes her head emphatically. “He’s like six foot six of gorgeousness.”
“He doesn’t want a girlfriend.”
“Six foot six? Damn,” Lauren says, mostly to herself.
“Did he tell you that?” Abigail asks me. “Or are you assuming shit? Because you know what happened when I assumed.”
“Tristan Gold is not trying to fake date me,” I whisper angrily at her, halfway to the front door.
Not hard to do, considering how flipping tiny this apartment is.
Funny how it never seemed small when it was just me, but now that there are three of us in here…
“I swear to god, Michelle, I will knock down this door if you so much as think of—”
I fling open the door, coming face-to-face with the six-foot-six wonder himself.
I blink, at a loss for words.
He quite literally takes my breath away.
Tristan is leaning up against my doorframe, looking more handsome than ever in a tight-fitting black button-down. The top buttons are undone, flashing a hint of his sculpted chest, and his jeans (designer, probably) fit him like a fucking glove.
My mouth actually begins to water, because he looks delicious.
“You look…Oxford, you look great,” he says, his gaze dragging up and down my body in a way that sends heat rushing through me.
I swallow, worried I might actually start to drool if I don’t get my shit together real quick.
“They did my hair,” I tell him, jerking my head back to where I hope my two bully friends are standing. “Lauren and Abigail.”
“It’s not just the hair.” He shakes his head slowly, then picks up my hand, raising it and circling his arm until I twirl around for his perusal. “I take back what I said about group settings.”
Shock wars with humor, and I let out the ugliest laugh at him. “Tristan Gold,” I say, unable to hide my smile.
“I made these for you,” he says, shoving a waxy paper bag in my hands. It’s warm, and I hold it gingerly, utterly confused about what he might have brought me.
I open the seam at the top, and the unmistakable scent of butter and sugar hits me like a freight train. “Snickerdoodles?”
“Do you like snickerdoodles?” he asks, peering at me as if my answer will solve all of life’s mysteries.
“I do. Wait, you made these?”
“I told you I like to bake.” He shrugs, like this is no big deal, like he bakes cookies for people all the time.
I can’t resist the siren call of the snickerdoodle, and I reach in, taking a careful bite. My eyes nearly roll to the back of my head. “These are delicious.”
On an impulse, I hold out my free hand.
Tristan throws back his head, laughing. “A whole handshake? Already? Damn.” He takes my hand in his huge one, and I do my best Paul Hollywood impression, staring him in the eyes like I’m trying to hypnotize him.
Problem is, I think he’s the one hypnotizing me, because I can’t look away from those gorgeous green and gold-flecked eyes.
Abigail clears her throat, and when I tear my gaze away from Tristan to glance back at her and Lauren, they’re exchanging furtive smiles.
“Ladies, am I taking the two of you, too?” Tristan asks, finally dropping my hand. I shove the rest of the cookie into my mouth like a chipmunk.
“Nope,” Abigail tells him sweetly.
I glare at her over my shoulder as I chew furiously. That is so not what we talked about.
“Luke’s downstairs. He’s going to drive me and Lauren.”
“I love third-wheeling,” Lauren says dryly.
“I can drive us,” I tell her.
“No,” Lauren and Tristan say at the same time.
He wags a finger at me. “Our lesson begins in the car. You won’t want an audience for that part.”
Good grief, now my mind is thinking about all kinds of car-related extracurricular activities involving the delicious Tristan Gold. The kind of activities I’d want to put my hair back in a bun for.
Clearing my throat, I hold up my own finger, feeling annoyed at being overruled by everyone in my immediate proximity for the last hour or so.
And annoyed at myself for fantasizing about a player on the team I fricking work for.
“I want you to know that when I finally win a bet against you, I’m going to make it as ridiculous for you as you have for me.” I cock an eyebrow at Tristan.
Something shifts around his eyes, but he smiles so wide and fast I think I must have imagined it.
“Come on, Oxford,” he drawls. “As if I could be anything but ridiculous.”
“We’ll see you when we get there,” Lauren pipes up.
The two of them push their way through the awkwardness that is me and Tristan gawking at each other in the doorway. He steps back, away from me, to let them through, and I grab my purse from the table beside the door, setting the cookies in their place.
I stare at them for a second, considering taking them with me, because the man definitely knows his way around a snickerdoodle.
No one I’ve dated has ever baked me anything.
I lock up quickly, not wanting to stand around with Tristan Gold in my very small apartment any longer than necessary.
Having him come here, where my bed is only a dozen feet away from the front door, was an incredibly bad idea—because now I’m only thinking about how I could get him into it.