“I have a date.” Her cheeks flush, and she tugs at the hem of the dress.
“Whoa. A date? Dude must be killing it in the sack if you’re willing to put on this smoke show.” Jerome does the finger spin. “Let’s see the back of this number.”
“It’s a first date, so I have no idea if he’s killing it in the sack.” She turns, pulling her hair over her shoulder to expose the back of dress. The straps are thin. So thin, in fact, that there is absolutely no way she can be wearing a bra. Not to mention it dips low, exposing a significant amount of skin. The dress is also on the shorter side, hitting her mid-thigh, showing off her athletic legs.
Having lived with Avery for a while, I’m familiar with her underwear preferences. Sometimes our laundry gets mixed up, or I have to move her stuff from the dryer to the basket. She’s a boy shorts and full coverage kind of woman most of the time. Always basic colors like black and beige. No frills, nothing risqué. However, I do not detect panty lines. Which means she’s either wearing a pair of those seamless, ugly-as-fuck beige ones I’ve had the misfortune of finding stuck inside the leg of my jeans, or she’s wearing a thong.
For whatever reason, I would much prefer it to be the former rather than the latter.
“So? What do you think? Is it too much for a first date?” She props a fist on her hip and bites her bottom lip.
“I think if you want to find out if he’s killin’ it in the sack, that’s definitely the dress you should wear,” Jerome says.
Mark nods his agreement.
She makes a face. “Do you think it sends the wrong message?”
“Nah, you look sexy as hell. Own it. He’ll be begging for a second date.” Jerome fist-bumps Mark.
“And picking up the tab.” Mark pretends to make it rain dollar bills.
“I’ll pay for my own drink, but it’s good to know showing off my legs can cut down on my expenses.” Avery smirks.
“Do you have any other options? Maybe you want to show us a couple other ones and we can vote on a fave?” I suggest. “What about that army-green shirtdress?”
“Oh! Yes. Okay. London loaned me a couple other dresses, but I think they might be overkill. I’ll try on the shirtdress first.”
She disappears down the hall with the clickity-click of her heels, and I go back to watching the game. Except I can feel Jerome and Mark staring at me. “What?”
“Why would you want her to change out of that? And what the hell is a shirtdress?” Jerome asks.
“Just for options, you know? Girls usually like to change five times before a date. She probably threw on the first thing she found.” There’s a silence, but I purposefully avoid looking at either of them.
“Yeah, whatever, man.”
A minute later she reappears, this time wearing the shirtdress.
“Oh yeah, that’s perfect.” I lick the wing sauce off my finger and give her two thumbs-up.
Jerome’s expression screams what the fuck? “Don’t listen to D, he’s high or something. Wear the black one.”
“Avery looks great in this dress,” I argue. Also, this dress is baggy and virtually shapeless. The hem ends at her knees and it has short sleeves, which means there’s a lot less skin on display.
“I agree with Jerome. You should definitely wear the other dress.” Mark says. “You look like you’re interviewing for an elementary school teaching position.” Mark happens to teach elementary school, so he’s familiar with teacher wear. “And while there’s nothing wrong with that dress in an elementary school, it definitely does not scream hot, sexy, and single like the other dress.”
“Okay. Thanks, guys!” And off she flounces down the hall. To change back into the other dress. The one I would like to put through a paper shredder.
Five minutes later, Avery’s back in the black dress. She’s paired it with a cropped jean jacket—I have to assume it either belongs to London or Harley since I’ve never seen her wear it before—and the giant bag she takes with her everywhere.
“Have a good night, guys.” She heads for the front door.
Jerome and Mark wave her off, too enthralled with the game to care, I guess.
“You’re gonna text every couple of hours with updates, right?” I call out.
“Huh?” She has her phone in her hand, her attention fixed there. Possibly messaging this dude she’s going out with.
“You’re gonna message and let me know if you’re planning to come home or whatever.”
“Seriously?” She stops texting so she can arch a brow.
I arch one right back. “Uh, yeah, seriously. We don’t even know what this guy’s name is. Where’d you meet him? How long have you known him?”
She scoffs, “You’re being ridiculous, Declan.”
“Am I, though? What about that guy who answered a Craigslist ad for a hookup and ended up dismembered and decapitated?”
Avery purses her lips. “First of all, I would never answer a dating ad on Craigslist. Secondly, I’m driving my own car to the restaurant, and I have no plan to go home with this guy. It’s drinks and that’s it.”
“Yeah, but—”
She holds up a finger. “London and Harley already know where I’m going, and we all have that tracking app on our phone so we can locate one another in case of an emergency.”
“Oh. Well, maybe we need to get that app too.” Avery’s taken self-defense and she’s athletic, but knowing she’s not locked in the trunk of some random lunatic’s car is always a bonus. It’s not like she hasn’t gone on dates before. She has, plenty of times. She’s had a few short-term boyfriends even, but they usually don’t last very long. I’ve never seen her put this much effort into a date before, especially not a first freaking date.
“I’ll send you a link.” I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. “Would you also like me to provide updates on the lines he uses when I go to the bathroom?”
“Ooh, yeah! We can rate them based on how bad they are!” Jerome and Mark fist-bump each other again.
Avery laughs and opens the door. “You guys are the worst.”
And then she’s out the door.
I shift my focus to the game and chug half my beer, not liking the sudden uneasiness in my gut.
As soon as there’s a commercial break, Jerome clears his throat, and I glance over to find both of them staring at me. “What?”
“What’s the deal?” Mark cocks a brow.
“The deal with what?”
“That shirtdress was fucking hideous,” Jerome says.
“It looks good on her.” That’s a lie. I’m highly aware that it’s hideous, which was the damn point.
They give me a disbelieving look.
I sigh and roll my beer bottle between my palms. “It was the first I’ve heard of this guy, and I want to make sure she’s safe. Don’t you?”
“By monitoring her with a locator app?”
“What if the guy is a creep?”
“Then she’ll message and bail. She can take care of herself,” Jerome says.
“I know that.”
But it doesn’t mean I don’t worry about her.
Even when we moved in together, she was casually dating someone, so there was nothing to be concerned about. And by that time, I’d witnessed all of Avery’s moods, from premenstrual to downright surly. We’d been through a lot together, and I never wanted to put our friendship at risk.
But I can’t say that I love that she’s on a date with some random dude whose name we still don’t know, wearing a dress that makes me see her through a totally different lens. I need a distraction.
“Do you guys want to hit the bar?”
4
IT’S A BUST
AVERY
“I’ve had more stimulating conversation with a hobbyhorse.”
Both London and Harley make cringey faces. It’s Saturday night, and as promised, I came straight from my date to help them clean up after the dinner.
Now that the hobbyhorse awards dinner is
over, the three of us are gathered in the office, eating leftovers and engaging in a post-date debrief.
“But he was so hot.” London pops an olive into her mouth.
“And that, sadly, is all he has going for him. At least one of us has had success with this app.” I pull up Brock’s profile on IG since he made sure I followed him within two minutes of sitting down. Then he proceeded to go through every single photo and explain, in painstaking detail, how much time, effort, and energy went into training to become as physically perfect as he proclaimed himself to be. I set my phone on the table facing my sisters, presenting them with the glory of everything Brock Stone. Shirtless, muscle-popping wonder with the intellectual capacity of a gnat. “If I’d had all the necessary information, I could have done the requisite social media check pre-date and avoided wasting my time.”
Even as we were walking out to our respective cars, Brock continued to regale me with his impressive lifting stats. We split the bill, although he didn’t seem to think leaving a tip was necessary, so I went ahead and padded mine to make up for it.
Harley and London pore over his profile, scrolling through his pictures, both wearing matching unimpressed expressions. There are a lot of pictures. Of him. Posing in front of the mirrors at the gym. There are also a few pictures of food, but otherwise it’s selfie central.
“Yeesh, I’ve never seen a guy do the duck face before. It’s…”
“A lot like Blue Steel?” I supply.
“Exactly!” Harley covers her mouth with her palm and snorts a laugh.
“I’m so sorry I encouraged you to go out with him.” London slides the phone back to me, and I drop it in my purse.
“Eh, it could’ve been worse. I have to admit it was fascinating to count the number of times he looked at his own reflection in the window. By the end of the date, he’d checked himself out a hundred and seventy times.”
“That’s beyond excessive.” Harley looks appropriately shocked.
“Do you want to hear the best part?”
“Best as in worst?” London asks.
“He invited me back to his place and seemed legitimately surprised when I said no. Like, he was honestly dumbfounded and asked me three times if I was sure I didn’t want to go home with him.”
“No!” London and Harley say at the same time.
“Oh yes, and then he told me I’d be missing out on a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and asked whether I wanted to reconsider.”
Harley leans forward in her chair. “What did you say?”
“That I appreciated his offer, but losing out on that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity was a risk I was willing to take.”
London arches one perfect eyebrow. “I feel like that wasn’t the end of it.”
“You would be absolutely correct.” I lean back in my chair, remembering how confused he seemed. “He told me I shouldn’t send mixed messages and that my dress was a green light for a good time.”
“He did not.” London slaps the table, rattling the charcuterie board, causing a loose grape and several chocolate-covered almonds to roll off. She covers them with her hand before they can do a swan dive over the edge of the table. “Please tell me you told him off. You had to have told him where to go. There is absolutely no way you would ever let someone say something like that to you and get away with it. And that dress isn’t a green light for anything but looking sexy. And since when is it a crime to have great legs and a fabulous, toned body?” She huffs indignantly.
I love London. People who don’t know her well sometimes think she’s pretentious, or maybe even a bit stuck-up, but in reality, she’s full of fire and incredibly protective. She likes to keep things close to the vest, and as a result, she’s a bit more reserved than me or even Harley. Being the middle child of three girls puts her in a weird position. She’s always been a pleaser and a mediator. If our parents suggested an after-school activity, she would sign up. If I wanted to play soccer after school, she’d come outside and stand in as the goalie, even though she doesn’t like playing sports. And if Harley wanted to play babysitter, it was always London who’d play the child. She was always happy to step into whatever role was needed. And she was always there to stand up for us, just like she is now.
“Of course I told him off, not that it made an impact. I honestly think this guy had three brain cells to rub together and all of them were on vacation.”
“Are you going to try again?” Harley asks, slathering goat cheese on a cracker and topping it with a sliced fresh fig. “Obviously not with Brock the Rock, but someone else? Maybe London and I can help vet someone new and not base it solely on the fact that he’s hot and plays sports.”
“I don’t know. It was such a waste of my night, and I missed a really good game.” I checked the score in the bathroom twice and spent a good part of my date watching it in the reflection of the window while Brock watched his own reflection. “There has to be a better way to meet guys outside of freaking dating apps.”
“Are there any non-friend-zoned options on your rec soccer team?” Harley asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe? I haven’t ever really checked them out.”
“Might be a thought,” London says. “At least you know you have something in common, and you can better assess their intellectual competency before you agree to a date.” I love that this is the way her mind works. If there were ever a person who could create a math formula to help find the right date, it would be her. Or Declan.
“It’s a possibility.” And one I honestly hadn’t considered before now, likely because my friend group makes it tough to flirt. I’m also super competitive when it comes to sports and very much focused on the game, not the players.
* * *
The condo is quiet and empty when I get home. It’s not unusual for Declan to be out on a Saturday night, but I figured he’d stay in tonight since the guys were over and we have an early morning. Maybe they hit up the club and decided to pretend they’re still twenty-one-year-old frat boys.
I get ready for bed, pull my trusty vibe out of my nightstand—my only sure thing—and get myself off. It’s the best action I’ve had in a long time, which isn’t saying much considering how little action I get. It’s too bad I can’t absorb some of Declan’s prolific sex life through osmosis. I try to wipe that thought from my brain because the last thing I need is the image of Declan doing his thing with some random as I’m drifting off to dreamland.
My alarm goes off at seven thirty. I hop out of bed and peek through the blinds. The forecast was right; it’s pouring rain, and based on my weather app, it’s not going to let up anytime soon. At least we’re taking Declan’s SUV, which is built for this kind of weather—and off-roading.
I head to the kitchen to set a pot of coffee to brew before I take a shower. As I open the cupboard door, I nearly step on a black lace thong. I frown at the underwear, aware they mean one thing: Declan brought someone home last night. He’s been doing that a lot less lately, so this takes me by surprise.
His parents divorced when we were sophomores in college, and they didn’t end on the best terms. Their tumultuous relationship and his being constantly in the middle of their fights means he’s relationship averse and unlikely to settle down anytime soon, if ever. I don’t blame him; if I’d been involved in their screwed-up relationship, I’d probably never want to settle down either.
I get the coffee going before I grab a pair of tongs and pick up the discarded panties his fun time must have left as a parting gift. As I pass through the living room, I notice a woman’s jacket and a pair of sky-high black patent stilettos. Which means whoever he brought home last night is still here.
I hang the panties on his doorknob and leave the tongs on the floor for him to deal with later.
I knock on his door. “Hey, Declan, you still coming with me today?”
All I get is a muffled grunt and a feminine groan, followed by a giggle.
“For fuck’s sake.” I head back to my room to shower and
get ready.
Half an hour later, I’m dressed in a pair of black pants and a London-approved shirt, and have my bag packed for the overnight trip. I check to make sure I have my laptop and everything else I’ll need for the pitch meeting tomorrow. It’s clear I’m making this trip on my own based on Declan’s lack of response, and the fact that he hasn’t made an appearance since I knocked on his door. I pour myself a travel mug of coffee, stirring in the sugar and cream with more vigor than necessary. Coffee sloshes over the side, spilling on the counter. I don’t bother to wipe it up.
I slip my shoes on, double-check my overnight bag and purse one last time, and reach for Declan’s keys, but they’re missing from the hook. “Dammit.”
I have no interest in meeting one of his random one-night stands this morning, or interrupting something I won’t be able to unsee, but I also don’t want to drive my car on the freeway in the rain. I sigh, resigned, stomp back down the hall, and pound on Declan’s door. “I need the keys to your SUV. Where are they?” Yes, I’m bitchy. Yes, I believe I have a right to be.
There’s a lot of groaning and grunting, followed by profanity.
“Deck, I gotta go or I’m gonna be late. Where the heck are your keys?” Low-level panic sets in. I don’t want to be late this morning, especially since the game starts at noon and our friends secured really great seats. I also hate driving in the rain, and there’s a good chance it’s going to impact traffic.
The door to his bedroom swings open. His face is flushed, his hair a wreck, and all he’s wearing is a pair of boxers. I keep my eyes fixed above the neck. Based on my current view, I’ve interrupted some morning nookie. It’s another reason to be pissed, since he obviously put more value on getting laid than he did on getting his ass in gear so he could honor his commitment and come with me to Boulder.
I poke at my cheek with my tongue, so damn annoyed and ready to go off on him. I was counting on having his SUV today and some company on this freaking trip.
He drags a hand through his hair, biceps flexing. His lips are puffy and his eyes are glassy. I make the mistake of glancing to the right, which means I’m looking at the bare ass of the woman currently sprawled across his dark sheets.
When Sparks Fly Page 3