The Real(28)

The day after, we had our first dinner date. Again, we’d ended up on my porch, clinging to each other, an invitation on the tip of my tongue but never escaping my lips. And he’d never pressed. We’d left each other frustrated, but in the best way.

Last night, outside my door, and underneath the artificial yellow light, he’d whispered my name in a way that had me near orgasm just from the sound of it.

“Abbie,” he rasped out as his fingertips traced the collar of my knit sweater. They edged around the soft fabric in a seductive caress while his green eyes held my blue. Wordless—though I could see a million of them on his waiting lips—he kissed me breathless, and then kissed me some more as I sank into him, our bodies locking like they belonged that way.

Swept away by the King of Woo, I still couldn’t believe I was the lucky one on the receiving end of his attention. It was, without exaggeration, the most romantic courting of my life. No matter what we were doing, his affection seemed bottomless, and I lapped it up eagerly, starved for more.

I had it bad, and it felt so fucking good; I refused to overanalyze it.

Bree smiled at my dazed expression while my brain scrambled with racing thoughts of my new man. Trying to remain focused on my duties, I scrutinized the dress she was fastening.

“This isn’t exactly your style,” I said. “Neither is this place.”

We were at a posh bridal boutique downtown. Anthony had insisted on giving her his AmEx and buying her dress. Bree was as independent as I was but seemed to have no issue with it.

I was proud of her for being so onboard with his plans. She was arranging the ceremony but agreed to leave the reception up to her fiancé. For a southern girl who came from a traditional family, it was completely atypical for a bride to give up so much say, but Bree was anything but typical.

I moved to free her from the tight confines of the dress just as it pooled at her feet. “I’m not going to find it here.” She sighed, slipping into another dress.

“No, you aren’t, but it was a sweet gesture from him. There’s a shop in Wicker that sells vintage gowns,” I suggested. “We should check that out.”

She beamed at me. “He’s loving the whole thing, the planning and the details. It’s so weird, right? He wants to be involved.”

I shook my head. “Not weird, it’s amazing. And you aren’t the stressed-out bride at all.”

She grinned. “We’ve been having a lot of sex.”

Just as the words passed her lips, the woman who was assisting us brought in two more dresses. She cringed at Bree’s comment and hung up her finds on the standing rack of silk and lace.

“Here are a few more that might be your style.”

“Thanks,” Bree said, picking through the rack before she eyed the attendant and walked over to me. “This place is so Pretty Woman,” she said with a devilish grin. A grin I knew was trouble.

“Oh, honey,” she spouted, pitching her voice before resting her booted foot on the sparkling white cushion next to me. “I think I’ve got a runner in my pantyhose,” she said, running her hand down her bare leg.

The attendant eyed Bree in horror as she continued, adding her southern flair. “Oh me, oh my,” she drawled. “I’m not wearing pantyhose,” she deadpanned, as if it was the cue for the end of her scene.

Bree then went on about her business as she normally did when she’d embarrassed me. “Speaking of sex, when are you going to put the poor man out of his misery?”

The attendant scurried from the room as if she needed to pray the evil away, and Bree kept her eyes on me. I buried my head in my hands. “Could you, for once, try not to humiliate me everywhere we go? I might be here for my own dress one day.”

“Oh, come on. What exactly does she think happens to these dresses on the wedding night?”

“I don’t know, but she probably didn’t do anal to get her husband to propose.”

Bree rolled her eyes. “You aren’t a prude, and this isn’t your first rodeo. Are you nervous?”

“No, I told you that we’re taking it slow. He’s a gentleman, and he’s wooing me.”

“You’ve become a little bit high maintenance,” she said, slipping on her corduroy overalls.

“I have not,” I said, averting my eyes.

“You have,” she insisted as she thumbed through the dresses, unimpressed. “You have, and I’m proud of you for it. You’ve come a long way. Let’s get out of here.”




On the way to the bridal shop in Wicker Park, Bree stopped us in the street.

“Come on, it’s been a while.”

Realizing where we were, I looked up and found the sign hanging next to the dry cleaner marquee.

“Not again,” I said, shaking my head. “This is a waste of your money.”

She nudged me before she put her hand on the door. “You should get a reading. She’s on point every time I come.”

“And you believe her,” I huffed. “No one can tell you your future, Bree.”

“Yes, they can, and she has. She predicted Anthony was coming,” she said as she opened the glass door.

“There’s always another man coming,” I scoffed as I followed her up the stairs. “That’s not a prediction. It’s a normal progression when you’re single.”