Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(71)
You’re definitely right—I do not use my old email address anymore. Though Dragon Ball Z is still KEWL. I thought about writing you as well, but I figured you weren’t still at [email protected].
I plucked my first gray hair the other day. How did we get so old? Let’s catch up for dinner soon? Things are really busy with work, but I could make myself available this Friday or Saturday night, if you’re free?
—Your Best Friend, Daniel
Ps. I am so glad to hear from you.
You and me both, Daniel.
? chapter twenty-five
I LOOK RIDICULOUS.” TREVOR pouts at his reflection in the full-body-length gilded mirror, tugging at the fabric of his costume like it’s a monstrosity.
We’re at a costume rental store trying on our respective Disney getups, one of the last remaining birthday party planning tasks. Despite his admitted enjoyment of Tangled, Trevor is not enthused.
I pull the vest to center on his chest with a hard tug, taking a mental picture for safekeeping on days I need an instant mood boost. “Shut up. It looks amazing. Instant panty-dropper.”
Like the dashing and effortlessly charismatic Flynn Rider from Tangled, Trevor liberally fills out his impossibly tight pair of camel-colored pants. I’m tempted to bounce a coin off his ass. Like the monster he is, he somehow manages to pull off the ornate green vest better than cartoon Flynn.
He grunts, fussing with the front clasp. “This is a panty-dropper? Maybe in medieval times.”
“Stop messing with it,” I order, swatting his hand away. “And FYI, the vest is basically the historical version of a Henley. It’s a staple in the romance hero wardrobe.”
“What’s a Henley?”
I glare at him. “You did not just ask me what a Henley is.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Further proof you are not romance hero material,” I conclude, more for my own benefit, lest I slip up and continue to forget that glaring, indisputable fact.
Shockingly, he doesn’t debate it. He goes quiet for a moment before conceding, “I still don’t know what a Henley is.”
“It’s one of those cotton pullover shirts. Round collar with the little buttons? Scotty wears them all the time,” I explain, softening my tone.
He checks himself out again in the mirror. “I could rock those.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. They require a certain kind of swagger.” Truthfully, I’m both startled and affronted by the mental visual of his tattooed biceps, corded forearms, and broad chest doing overtime under an unbuttoned Henley. He’s going about his day, doing the normal things romance heroes do. Rolling up his sleeves. Leaning on various supportive structures, arms crossed to accentuate said biceps. Being an overall walking thirst trap. I’d follow him straight into a pyramid scheme in this getup.
“Swagger. Pft.” He waves my blatant lie away, unbothered, probably because he knows he looks flawless in just about anything (and nothing at all). He eyes his Disney costume in the mirror once more and whines like a small child. “Can I please lose the tights at least?”
Depriving the world of his ass in those pants would be an international war crime. “First, those are not tights. And you can’t get any worse than me. I’m basically a gigantic bumblebee.” I gesture to my ill-fitting yellow Belle gown. If I needed any proof that yellow does nothing for me, it’s right here and now in the mirror.
He makes no attempt to spare my feelings. “Why would you choose Beauty and the Beast of all the princesses? She’s pretty damn boring, from what I remember.” He waves a dismissive hand at my excessively poofy dress like it’s a steaming pile of shit.
“I thought you said you didn’t watch Disney?”
“Not as an adult. I’ve seen all the old ones.”
I glower at him, my hand on my hip. “Well, if you must know, Belle and I are the most alike. We’re both bookworms, we try to see the good in people, we don’t like being told what to do. If you call her boring, you’re calling me boring.”
He tilts his head like a dog, giving the dress another gander. “I just meant her outfit is a little . . . much. With the bows and all the fabric. Why didn’t you go with Little Mermaid?”
“We have an Ariel costume,” Glenda, the crotchety store owner, informs us from across the room, where she’s steaming a Captain America suit I’m tempted to rent for Scott, given his uncanny Chris Evans resemblance.
“We’re good with Belle, thanks,” I say gratefully, and turn back to Trevor. “You just want to see me in a shell bikini top.”
“Nobody would complain about that.” Is this Trevor’s way of admitting he wouldn’t mind seeing me, his best friend, in a seashell bra?
I tug at the itchy sleeve of my ball gown, unable to discern whether he’s being serious or sarcastic. “My boobs are not appropriate for your innocent niece’s tenth birthday party.”
“If you say so.” He’s distracted by his phone. I can’t help but peek at the screen. My eyes zero in on an open text conversation with Kyla.
“So, how was your hangout the other night with Kyla?” I ask, trying to make my voice as casual, sweet, and Disney princess–like as possible. “Was she as amazing as you remember?”