Accidentally Amy(41)

She slid the phone into the pocket of her tweed skirt (new and cute and perfectly matched to a white ruffly pirate shirt with an open cardigan), crossed the living room, and pulled open the front door.
Gawwwwwwwd. Blake stood there, looking beautiful, which was nothing new. Good hair, knee-weakening cologne, and a V-neck sweater/ button-down shirt combo that showcased the hell out of that mile-wide chest and spectacular pecs; the man could serve a look.
But those things were nothing - nothing - compared to the way he was looking at her. He looked like she felt, like he was filled with anticipation and intensity, and that was enough to make her want to faint.
Especially when he was holding a bouquet of bright yellow daffodils.
And smelling like something she wanted to bite.
“Hi,” she said, feeling breathless and incapable of words.
That made him smile and hold out the flowers. “Hi.”
“Ohmigod, thank you. I love daffodils. Did you know that?” She tried remembering if she’d ever told him that as she took them from him.
“I did not know,” he said, his voice a little quieter than usual. “But you’re welcome. My mother always said that daffodils are like two flowers in one, so, uh, that is why I chose them, I guess.”
She nodded. “Let me just put them in water,” she said, walking away from him and trying to find calm as she headed for the kitchen. “And then we can go.”
“Sure,” he said. He cleared his throat, and then he added, “I also have some other flowers that the florist talked me into. I, ah, I don’t think they’re really a thing for a dinner date, but she was kind of bossy and insisted you’d want them so I...”
And he just trailed off.
That made Izzy stop in the kitchen doorway. She turned around, and Blake was still standing just inside the door, holding a…wrist corsage?
“Is that for me?” she asked.
He looked embarrassed and gave her a little half-shrug. “Yeah, but it’s totally fine if you don’t want it. The lady--”
“Oh, I want it.” She rushed back to him and looked down at the pretty yellow and white roses. She hadn’t gone to any formal dances in high school but had always wanted a corsage. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Really?” He was looking down at her with wrinkled eyebrows. “Are you messing with me?”
“No,” she said, getting a little sidetracked by the curl of his black eyelashes. “I love it. And I love that you couldn’t tell the florist no.”
“Well, let me put it on, then,” he said, his eyes on hers as he lifted her wrist with his free hand and attempted to slide on the corsage. But the elastic band got hung up on her ring, and then again on her pinkie finger.
She looked down and - dear God - saw the tiniest shake in his hand.
“Are you…nervous?” she asked, unable to believe it as she looked up into his face.
“No,” he said, dismissively, and immediately followed it up with, “Actually yes. Fuck.”
That made Izzy smile through her nerves. “Me, too.”
“It just feels important,” he said, looking down and straightening the flowers on her wrist. “Tonight, that is.”
Izzy nodded. “Weird, right?”
He returned his gaze to hers. “Very.”
“But that’s dumb,” she said, her nervous energy taking over. “Because it’s not.”
“It’s not?”
“No,” she said, rubbing her lips together. “You’re just feeding me because I’m amazing, and I just happened to wear make-up and a proper bra for the occasion. No bigs.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Proper bra?”
“An undergarment,” she explained, shifting her weight to one foot as her big mouth took over. “With wires inside of it to push the ladies up and make them more appealing to the male gaze.”
He looked like he wanted to smile. “And you don’t usually, um--”
“Yeah, no.” She waved a hand and said, “I don’t have a lot to work with upstairs, so I’m all about comfort. Jog bras and bralettes are my jam.”
Shut up, you idiot! Izzy always rambled when she was nervous, but this was perhaps her first overshare of which foundation garments were her fucking jam.
Blake cleared his throat. “I see.”
“Ohmigod - did I just ruin the illusion?" Why was her mouth so freaking vomitous all the time? She said, "Was my admission akin to a man opening a date by sharing the details of his micro penis? Should we just call it a night now, before you have to spend money on dinner when you know you don't want micropeen?”
“For fuck’s sake, Iz,” he said, sounding irritated.
“Oh, my God, I did!"
“I don’t give a shit about your micro penis, okay?” He grabbed the front of her cardigan in both hands and pulled her closer, frustration and amusement shining in his brown eyes. “I spend hours every day obsessing about all of you, every little bit.”
“You do?” she said, her voice barely there.
“Yes, I fucking do,” he said around an exhale. “So you can’t talk about your underthings without making me crazy. Without making me think about your skin and your body and the way you’d look in goddamn lace.”
Dear Lord. She felt winded, instantly rendered oxygen-deficient by the forceful heat behind his words.
She rested her hands on his chest and said, “How did you manage to tell me I have a micro penis, yet still make me want to give you a standing ovation?”
“I’m a hell of a good presenter.”