The thick night air closed in around them.
“There’s something about you, too, Amelia.”
“I could come with you,” she impulsively offered.
His eyebrows jumped about an inch up his forehead.
“As your date,” she elaborated, warming to the idea. “It’ll be perfect. You can’t go to a reunion without a date. And I’ve got a great dress, black and silver. Or, I’ve got something in pink with rhinestones. I know. I’ll do a fashion show. You can pick. And you can pick the shoes. Hair up?” She swished it up behind her head. “Or down.” She let it fall. Then she couldn’t help laughing.
His expression turned critical. “I’m not going to lie to them.”
“Who said anything about lying?”
“You’re not my girlfriend.”
“No,” she agreed, thinking an exceptional guy like Morgan would never be interested in an ordinary girl like her. She lowered herself to perch on his knee. “I’ll only be your date. We won’t claim anything more than that.”
“I’m not going,” he stated emphatically.
“Sure, you are.”
He shook his head.
“Think about it, Morgan.” She brushed back a short lock of his hair. “We tame this mop, get you some contacts. I’ll help you pick out a suit that doesn’t involve plaid.”
“I like plaid.”
“I know you do. That doesn’t mean plaid likes you.”
“You are incorrigible.”
“Only when I’m right.” She flipped her own hair again. “Up?” she asked him. “Or down? I’ll let you pick my dress.”
His gaze drifted to her cover-up. “You look good in yellow.”
“Black’s more sophisticated.”
“Plaid?”
“Anything but plaid.”
o o o o
When Morgan stepped out of the changing room in the back of Gilles on Fifth, Amelia nearly gasped out loud. They’d had his hair cut short and neat this morning, and he was testing out a pair of contacts from the optometrist. The first suit she’d chosen for him was dark gray, just a hint off pure black. His shirt was crisp white, the tie deep-blue silk. She wasn’t sure they had to look any further.
She came to her feet from the plush armchair, moving toward him, taking in the lines and angles of the fine fabric. “Every woman there is going to be kicking herself for not snagging you when she had the chance.”
Morgan scoffed out a laugh, running a finger beneath his collar. “Your acting skills are improving.” He turned to look at himself in the three-way mirror. “I feel like I’m going to a funeral.”
“You look fantastic.” Standing beside him in the reflection, Amelia felt underdressed in her jeans, flats, a faded pink tank top and a loose ponytail. “I’m the one who needs work.”
He met her gaze in the middle mirror, his eyes as soft as the sky. “You’re perfect.”
A cloak of warmth enveloped her chest, spreading outward. “Well, I’m definitely not going to the dance dressed like this.”
A salesman bustled up from behind them. “A special occasion, sir?”
“His high school reunion,” Amelia supplied, running her fingertips along the shoulder of the suit, testing the feel of the fabric.
“She’s my date,” Morgan put in, sending another warm glow through her chest.
“This is a very good fit,” the salesman complimented.
Amelia couldn’t help thinking that Morgan would look great in anything he threw on. He was tall, broad-shouldered, buff and handsome.
“What do you think?” Morgan asked her, spreading his arms. “Does it pass muster?”
“You want to try something in black?” She wasn’t sure how formal he’d like to go.
“Is there something wrong with the gray?”
“Not a thing. It’s up to you.”
Amusement sparkled in his eyes. “I think we both know that’s not true.”
“I just insisted you wear a suit. It’s up to you which one.”
He nodded to a nearby mannequin. “Can I go with the leather?”
“No.”
“The one with purple satin accents?”
“No.”
“I rest my case.”
The salesman obviously fought a smirk. “I find most men take advice from their significant other.”
“Oh, I’m not—” Amelia stopped herself. What was she going to say? That she wasn’t significant? Why would the salesman care? And, anyway, it was only a turn of phrase. “It looks really good on you,” she told Morgan instead.
“Then we’ll take it,” he said to the salesman.
“And the tie?” the man asked.
“The whole thing.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll meet you at the checkout.”
“Anything else I need?” Morgan asked Amelia as the salesman walked away. “A new watch, maybe a pair of shoes?”
“How impressed do you want them to be?”
“You’re in charge of wardrobe.”
“Seriously?” She couldn’t believe he’d give her free reign.
“Seriously.”
“Then, yes to the watch and yes to the shoes.”
His drugstore watch was scratched and worn, and a pair of black oxfords would sure beat his worn loafers.
She grinned at his pained expression. “Go big or go home.”
“I’m going to regret this,” he muttered as he moved toward the changing cubicle.
“You’re going to be so glad you did this,” she called after him.
He turned, one hand on the top of the curtain. “You’re next.”
“Huh?”
He snapped it shut. “Le Blanc is just down the street.”
“I can’t afford a new dress.” And she sure couldn’t afford anything from Le Blanc.
“You’re the one who signed up to be arm candy.”
“I did not.” But his words gave her pause.
“What good does it do me to show up in a thousand-dollar suit if my date’s wearing a fifty-dollar dress?”
“I don’t have fifty-dollar dresses.” Okay, well, some of them were fifty-dollar dresses. But she’d been on a budget for the past four years. She was still on a budget.
“Have you got anything in your closet that will dazzle my former classmates?”
The truth was she didn’t. “I can’t afford to dazzle your former classmates. I could show them some cleavage.”
He snapped open the curtain, emerging in his slacks and golf shirt. “No offense to your cleavage, Amelia.” His gaze dropped for a split second, and she felt herself flush in reaction. “But it’ll need the right kind of decoration for an event like this.”
“I’m saving my tips to buy a bed.”
He looped the suit over his arm. “Good thing I’m buying the dress.”
Guilt tightened her stomach. “You can’t do that. I’ve got some nice dresses. They’ll be fine.”
“Go big or go home.”
“You can’t spend that kind of money.”
The suit he could wear again. In fact, she hoped he’d wear it often. But he couldn’t buy her an expensive dress for a single night.
“And you can wear the dress again.”
“But it won’t be with you.” As the words came out, she realized they made her a little sad. “I mean, the suit is a long-term purchase for your benefit. The dress would be you throwing away money for a single night.”
“You seem to think it’s an important night.”
“It is an important night. Everyone who struggled in high school should have an opportunity to go back triumphant. You’ll remember this night forever.”
“That’s my point. The suit, the watch, the shoes, they’re all well and good. But my best accessory, the billboard for my success, is you on my arm.”
Amelia didn’t like the sound of that—probably because it had such an uncomfortable ring of truth.
“You signed up for this,” he reminded her.
“I don
’t want you to spend your money on me.”
“You won the debate, Amelia. I’ve bought in. Now we have to bring the plan home with a really great evening gown.”
She hated to admit he was right. The plan really was going to work better if she had a kick-ass dress.
Still, she hesitated. “Are you sure you can afford this?”
“Let me worry about what I can afford.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I can afford this.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He put his hand on the small of her back and urged her toward the checkout. “I have a good job, a rent-free condo, and a simple lifestyle. I can afford to buy a dress.”
“Your condo’s free, too?”
“It comes with the job.”
Morgan paid for the suit, and they stowed it in his car before moving on to Le Blanc. Once she’d accepted the wisdom of buying a new dress, Amelia silently vowed to find something perfect—not too expensive—but perfect for Morgan’s big entrance at the reunion.
“Find somewhere to sit down,” she told him as they entered the airy, white and burgundy shop. “I’ll bring you some choices.”
Wending her way between the well-spaced racks, she draped black, gold, aqua and purple gowns across her arm. A sales clerk quickly appeared to put the selections in a change room. Amelia selected long and gauzy, short and sleek, long sleeves, no sleeves, and a couple with inset sequins and jewels.
Morgan looked amused where he’d parked himself near the changing rooms. A second clerk brought him a glass of sparkling water and offered him a choice of magazines. Clearly, he wasn’t the first man who’d found himself cooling his heels near the change rooms in the store.
The first dress she modeled was pencil slim, black satin, with cap sleeves and a scooped neckline.
“Elegant?” she asked as she did a pirouette.
“If you say so.” He didn’t look blown away.
“If your reunion was in the 1920s, I’d say it was perfect.”
He smiled at that.
“Next?” she asked.
“Next,” he agreed.
A few minutes later, she emerged in dark purple. The gown was long and flowing, with a plunging vee neck and bands of tiny pearls sewn around the waist. She turned so that the gauzy skirt flared out.
“Cleavage,” she noted.
“I think I can see your navel.”
She glanced down at his exaggeration. “Too much cleavage?”
“We probably want to leave a little to their imagination.”
“Are you calling me slutty?”
“You’re fine. It’s the dress that’s slutty.”
“Next.” She elongated the word as she flounced back into the curtained cubicle.
As an antidote to slutty, she chose one in white. It was soft satin, ankle length, with spaghetti straps and a halter bodice. The barest hint of silver thread ran through the skirt, and it had crystals sewn into a high waist.
“Well?” she asked, taking smooth strides across the plush carpet.
“I can see one problem,” he told her with a perfectly straight face.
“What’s that?” She gazed down the length of the dress then twisted to look in the mirror, searching for flaws.
“I might be tempted to marry you before the night was over.”
Amelia coughed out a laugh of surprise. “Okay. Well, I don’t expect the date to go quite that well.”
He got a now-familiar twinkle in his blue eyes. “I’ve always been an optimist, but...”
“No to the bridal gown,” she announced for both of them as she turned away.
Inside the cubicle, she searched for something completely different. Short this time, she decided, just as she came upon the first dress that had caught her eye. It had an underdress of light aqua satin with a strapless sweetheart neckline. The bodice was covered in flat, gold lace that rose over her right shoulder. Beneath the bust, a wide, crinkled sash gave shape to the waist. The aqua skirt was covered in layers of shiny gold organza that fell to mid-thigh. The full skirt bounced out just enough to be fun.
It wasn’t virginal. It wasn’t slutty. And it didn’t make her look like she belonged in a Greta Garbo film. She swayed one way and then back the next, liking the slippery feel of the fabric against her thighs.
She took a breath and walked out to Morgan.
He went still in his chair, simply staring at her.
After a few seconds, she grew uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to the other. “Well?”
“I think you’ll knock ’em dead.”
She tried to interpret his expression. “In a good way?”
“It’ll be good for me.”
“You’re the one who counts.”
His face tightened in obvious concern. “You know, you’re going to give them a completely false impression—”
“Of what?” She interrupted, moving forward, not liking that he might be having second thoughts.
“Of the kind of girl who—”
“Likes you and wants to go on a date with you?”
“You know what I mean.”
She stopped in front of him. “I like you, Morgan,” she told him sincerely. “And I want to go on a date with you.”
From where he sat in the armchair, his head was tilted as he looked up at her. The worry was still there on his expression. “It’s not a real date.”
“What’s a real date?” she questioned. “A man? A woman? Dinner and dancing?”
“On a real date, there’s some possibility of future romantic engagement.”
“Can you state categorically, right here, right now, that you’ll never, ever be romantically interested in me?”
He was silent for a long moment. “No, I can’t.”
She smiled, ignoring a little warning tingle at the base of her brain that told her she couldn’t categorically deny ever being romantically interested in him, either.
“There you go,” she said brightly. “It’s a real date.” Then she stepped back and gave him a turn. “What do you think?”
“I think you just knocked me dead.”
“I haven’t looked at the price tag,” she warned him.
“Don’t worry about the price tag.”
“So, this is the one?”
Again, he was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer than usual. “This is definitely the one.”
o o o o
Morgan had always prided himself on his intellect and reason. But when Amelia was around, those two attributes seemed to vanish. She’d persuaded him to buy some designer blue jeans, a tight-fitting cowl-neck sweater, a couple of earth-tone T-shirts with what looked like torn collars, and a steel-gray dress shirt that made him feel like a New York fashion model. She’d told him he looked great, and he’d decided to believe her.
For now, he was back in his regular clothes and wearing his glasses, heading for Sam Finnegan’s first lecture in the main hall. The optometrist had suggested using the contact lenses only a few hours a day to start. He was working his way up, but he’d been surprised at how comfortable they felt. And he actually liked the way they gave him a wider field of vision.
Ryder McKinley caught up with Morgan as he turned down the main hallway. “Did you get us a backstage pass?”
Morgan chuckled. “I never pictured you as a groupie.”
“Get used to it.” Ryder paused. “Is Dr. Finnegan gay?”
“I don’t think so.” Not that Morgan had given it any thought. But he couldn’t remember Sam making any reference to his sexual orientation.
“Because.” Ryder waggled his brows meaningfully. “You know, if he’s looking for groupies...”
“You’re not gay,” Morgan pointed out as they joined the lineup.
“Maybe not. But I can put on the charm as good as the next guy.”
“Probably not as good as the next gay guy.”
“I suppose,” Ryder reluctantly agreed. “I’m just trying t
o find an angle.”
“Why are you so set on impressing him?” As far as Morgan knew, Sam was officially retired. He wasn’t heading up an institute or in charge of a large pot of research funding.
“He’s very influential,” said Ryder. “He’s on about a dozen boards. With one phone call, he could underwrite my research for the next decade.”
“You’re a funding-grant slut.”
“I am,” said Ryder.
Through the double wooden doors, they made their way into the rapidly filling main theater, finding seats halfway back.
“I don’t play politics very well,” Morgan said as they sat down on the plush seats.
“You might want to learn,” said Ryder. “The more money you can bring in from outside, the more the institute will pony up. It’s a snowball effect, but you have to get it started.”
“I was counting on the intrinsic value of my research,” Morgan said.
Ryder laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re in the big leagues now. And there’s a game to be played. Good decision on the hair, by the way. That mad-scientist look wasn’t doing anything for you.”
Morgan frowned at the exaggeration. “I didn’t have a mad-scientist look.”
“Okay, let’s call it an ‘I don’t give a shit’ look.”
“I don’t,” said Morgan. In fact, he thought the new haircut made him look preppy and pretentious.
“Better learn to,” said Ryder. “There are plenty of female donors out there, too. If you can flirt, you can fund your research.”
“I’ve never flirted in my life.”
Even if Morgan could figure out the confusing dynamics of sexy banter, it struck him as exceedingly false to use it as a tool of coercion.
“Everybody flirts.”
“Not me.”
“How do you pick up women?”
Morgan was about to say he didn’t. But that would have made him sound pathetic. “I’m open and honest.”
“How’s that been working for you?”
Morgan shrugged. “It’s not like I’m cruising the bars on Saturday nights looking for action.”
“Where do you meet women?”
“I dated my lab partner at Berkeley.” Morgan didn’t mention that it had been in his third year, and his sex life had been sporadic at best since then.
“And now?”
“Now?”
“Have you met anyone in Pasadena?”
An Unlikely Match (The Match Series - Book #1) Page 8
