by Meg Maguire
“Hey,” she said, wandering over. “You heading back north?”
“Only if you’re done with me. You need a lift?”
“No, thank you. I’m going to keep grilling Lindsey for a bit, then maybe have a wander around the neighborhood.”
“Okay.” He hit a standstill, not sure how to say goodbye. He’d have been angling for a kiss, except with Lindsey right there, it felt awkward.
Steph rose on her toes to give him a quick hug, rubbing his back. “Thanks again for the lift. And for dinner,” she added more quietly. “And everything.”
It wasn’t a kiss, to be sure, but as she dropped back, he felt all warm and squishy nonetheless. “My pleasure. Maybe I’ll see you around?”
Her smile tightened. “Maybe.”
He stepped forward to shake Lindsey’s hand. “Good to see you again. Nice place.”
She smiled, blue eyes narrowing with curiosity. Was that a matchmaker’s assessing study? Or the look of a woman who’d just been made privy to some pertinent female secrets? “Thanks. Good to see you, too.”
“Give my best to Jenna.”
“I will. Drive safe.”
He cast Steph a final smile, and headed for the stairwell.
Things with her always felt kind of murky and shapeless, so he shrugged the uncertainty off, trying to focus on the job opportunity he’d stumbled into. Whenever he was with her, good stuff just seemed to materialize.
As he trotted down the weathered, creaking front steps, his brain got busy jotting to-dos. He cast the building a backward glance.
It was no craftsman, no colonial, no Tudor revival, to be sure. But with a lot of satisfying work—and a certain redhead’s blessing—this place could become something really special.
And procuring said redhead’s blessing was a fine excuse to make use of her very hard-won phone number in a couple days’ time. He smiled at that, feeling warm despite the overcast winter sky.
11
FOR THE NEXT week, Steph tried her damnedest not to think about Patrick.
Just get on with work. Just get her head out of that fog he produced, with that smile and those eyes, and that sense-blocking smokescreen created by the fireworks their bodies made.
Her miracle hadn’t arrived at the mixer. Steph hadn’t even arrived at the mixer. She’d dressed, done her hair, stood by her door for ten minutes or more, fingering her keys. Sex with Patrick had been as sumptuous as Thanksgiving, and now the thought of even kissing another guy was about as appealing as soggy saltines.
In the end she’d listened to her gut, and called Jenna to apologize. “I’m just off tonight. I know myself, and going would be a bad idea.” She’d stayed in and gorged on two bags of microwave popcorn and a Netflix bender—anything to keep her mind off Patrick.
She was still undecided about Lindsey’s apartment. Cute place, decent neighborhood...but all the same faces from work, once she headed home for the night. She needed time to think about it.
On Tuesday she tag-teamed with Rich, joining Mercer for several interviews to find Wilinski’s a new general manager. Those duties had fallen to Mercer since the gym’s founder, his mentor, had passed away two years earlier, though he claimed he wasn’t suited to the gig. He’d much prefer to be training, full-time, and the gym was finally turning enough of a profit that it could afford to hire a proper GM. Hopefully someone who could drag them even further into the black through the magic of clever accounting.
So far the frontrunner was a tiny, soft-spoken twenty-something named Yanlin, who lived across the street with her parents above the little Chinese grocery store they owned. She was a freshly minted CPA, and had glanced at their books and software and offered a bunch of useful cost-cutting suggestions, which excited Mercer. Plus she was web-savvier than the three trainers combined. Steph was dubious of hiring a GM who boasted absolutely no working knowledge of the sport, but she didn’t argue that Wilinski’s could use a studious accountant-type to get the place organized. Someone whose focus wouldn’t fall to pieces whenever a big event drew near.
Steph had that Wednesday off. She set out from her apartment just after ten, with a printed map of every store within a five-mile radius that might yield the prize she sought—a kick-ass dress for Kristy’s wedding. One that’d make her look like a million bucks. For two hundred dollars or less.
Her hopes were high as the mission began. It was exciting to have an occasion that warranted such a splurge, but she was soon reminded exactly how behind her peers she was when it came to shopping.
She didn’t really know what styles flattered her athletic build—and tricked the eye into seeing hips and boobs and a backside where there really weren’t any—or what her colors were, or how to accessorize. Salesgirls tried to help, but after hitting four stores in two hours, endlessly changing in and out of dresses and winter layers... Nothing. Not so much as a single viable candidate.
Then in the fifth store, a formalwear boutique, she spotted a gown she liked. A lot.
It was a wedding dress, but the appeal had nothing to do with a desire to rush down the aisle. It was the gown itself, watery-smooth satin, strapless, the fabric gathered elegantly at the bust and falling in silvery cascades from the fitted waist.
It said things to her.
Whispered things, as though it were hell-bent on seducing her.
Clothes never did this to Steph. She got stuck standing there, admiring the gown, touching it fondly, fingering the glimmering embellishments at the center of the bodice.
A salesgirl came over, smiling.
“It’s beautiful,” Steph said.
“I love that one. So understated. When’s the big day?”
She laughed. “It’s this weekend. But it’s not mine—I’m just a guest. But this one nearly makes me wish I was the bride.”
“These can be bridal-party dresses, too. They come in white, then we dye them custom.”
Intrigued, Steph flipped the tag over. Six hundred bucks? Goddamn. What sick bride would do that to her best friends?
“You’ve got gorgeous coloring,” the girl said, eyes narrowing savvily. “Forgive me for asking, but you’re about a four, right?”
Steph nodded, eyes still caught on the gown, despite its ridiculous price tag.
“Hang on one moment.” The girl excused herself, disappearing past a velvet curtain. She returned in a moment with a length of satin draped over her arm, the cool, pale gray-blue of winter itself. She unfurled it, revealing the same gorgeous cut as the white dress. “Size four,” she explained. “A custom order, but there wound up being a fit issue.”
“It’s beautiful,” Steph said, barely daring to touch it. Even prettier in this color.
“Would you like to try it on?”
She hesitated. “Six hundred is way out of my budget.” And it wasn’t as though she’d have another excuse to wear a gown for another couple years, at least. If she was even still a four, by then.
“Since it’s a sample, it wouldn’t be full price. I’d have to talk to my manager, but I bet we could get it down to three fifty.”
Yikes. That was still way more than she’d planned on. She’d have to skip the new shoes and get a cheapo haircut to even begin to justify it.
“Maybe three hundred,” the salesgirl added.
Steph still wasn’t sold.
“Just try it on,” the girl suggested. “It might give you a sense of what shape you’re after.”
Steph folded, accepting the cool, slippery dress. “Okay. Trying it on can’t hurt.”
Only it did hurt, because it looked amazing. It didn’t need a stitch of alteration, sliding over her contours perfectly, even giving her the illusion of a bust and hips—if modest ones—and balancing her strong shoulders. It was fitted around the trunk and made her boobs sort of...float. Like magic. Made her not-quite-green eyes look greener, her hair redder. And the skirt positively slithered around her legs, too, like sex-made-satin. Damn.
But she couldn’t blow three hundred bu
cks on a dress she’d wear for one evening. She wouldn’t even have a date to take the thing off her. She wanted to look awesome in front of Kristy, but no matter how potent that petty, irrational urge was, it wasn’t happening at this price. She sighed and reached back to unzip the gown, wishing she’d never tried it on. No other dress would ever measure up, now.
She handed it back to the girl with her thanks, wishing the price would magically drop further. But it didn’t.
She put it out of her mind and tried the next store. Nothing. She was burning out, all the excitement bled from the mission. A few hours on, she wound up at a department store, and found two party dresses in her budget that she liked. Neither made her feel like the winter-colored gown had, but they were cute, and fairly flattering—one a blue strapless style, the other a beaded black number that looked far more expensive than it was. She was torn.
She aimed her phone at her reflection in the changing room mirror, and snapped a picture. She hit Share and typed a text. Need opinions. Option A? She cued up her mom’s number, but her finger froze above the send button. It wasn’t a mom’s approval she wanted. A mom wouldn’t have Steph’s sex appeal in mind. Impulsively, she rewrote her message. Got my bitch cousin’s wedding this weekend. What do you think? Option A? She found Patrick’s number, and sent the photo.
She changed into the blue dress and snapped a second picture. Or option B?
Her phone jingled before she’d even changed back into her street clothes. She checked the message, heart thumping.
depends. any single men going to be at this wedding? if so option c burlap sack
She laughed, then another message chimed.
just kidding. i like the blue one. looks pretty with your hair
She smiled, something wriggly and pleasant and terrifying upsetting her middle. Suddenly, she didn’t care what Kristy thought about how she looked. It was Patrick she wanted to wow. Patrick’s eyes she wanted assessing her, with that naked hunger glowing behind heavy lids, transforming him into the bossy man she’d met in his bedroom. She pursed her lips and stared at the two dresses hung on the rail. She did some math. No new shoes, and she could skip the cut altogether if she wore her hair up...
The stores would be closing soon.
“Screw it.” She abandoned the dresses on the rack outside the changing rooms.
As she marched out the door and back toward the bridal boutique, she scrolled for Patrick’s number and hit Talk.
“Steph?”
“Patrick. Hey.” Her voice came out huffy and stilted from her hurried pace.
“Uh-oh... Are you pissed, about me saying that thing, about other guys checking you out?”
She laughed. “Of course not. I’m just speed-walking. I’m calling to see if you’re free this weekend. And if you’d like to be my date for that wedding.”
“Oh.”
“It’s in Worcester. You’d be meeting my parents and my older brother, and probably staying the night, on my parents’ fold-out in the basement. With me. So it’s kind of a heavy date, on paper.”
“Is it a heavy date in your head?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “And I’ve decided I don’t care.”
“Black tie or just a suit?”
“Just a suit,” she said, dodging a gaggle of noisy teens.
“I’ve got one of those. What time do I pick you up?”
She smiled to herself and hauled the door to the bridal shop open. “Two o’clock, Saturday?”
“I’ll be there.”
They said goodbye, and Steph aimed herself at the salesgirl. Damn, she’d really wanted some new shoes...
“How about two fifty for that pale blue sample gown?” she asked.
The salesgirl made a show of hesitating. She consulted in the back with her manager for an extraordinarily long time while Steph idly tried on tiaras, finally returning with a smile and the perfect dress all zipped up in a garment bag.
“Two fifty,” she agreed, “but the sale would be final.”
Steph pulled out her wallet. “Deal.”
* * *
SHE WAS A nervous wreck on Saturday morning, blowing time before Patrick was due to pick her up.
Was she nervous because of him, or about seeing her awful cousin? Was she nervous Kristy would say something nasty, share some embarrassing war story from Steph’s adolescence in front of Patrick? Was she nervous her parents wouldn’t like him?
Or was she terrified of a much likelier possibility—that they’d love him?
Four times she took the dress out of its bag and tried it on. Obsessed over her accessories. Practiced in her heels.
Just after two, she unzipped herself one last time and dressed in street clothes. She’d change and do her hair and makeup at her parents’ house.
While Patrick did what? Shot the shit with her dad while the girls got gussied up?
Well, yeah. Probably. They’d find a zillion manly things to talk about. Bruins, Pats, Celtics. Real-estate prices, gas prices, snow-blower engines. Patrick would be fine.
He arrived five minutes early and she met him in the foyer. Oh dear.
Oh dear, oh dear. He looked gorgeous.
“Wow.” She took in his charcoal suit and the crisp collared shirt that made his crazy-blue eyes even crazier-blue.
“I clean up okay, right?” He smiled and kissed her cheek. “Changing in Worcester, I take it?”
“Yeah.” She led them out to his truck. “I paid way too much for my dress. No way I’m chancing any wrinkles.”
“The blue one, right?” he asked as he opened her door. “That definitely had my vote.”
“You’ll see.”
“It better be. I picked this shirt so we’d match.”
She laid the garment bag gently in the back of the cab and set her overnight tote between her feet. They buckled up and hit the road.
Goodness, she was excited. She hadn’t been this excited since right before junior prom—the last time she’d had an excuse to wear anything resembling a gown, come to think of it. Her date had been a guy friend, no chance of romance, but she’d still been stoked to feel girly for a night. Then Kristy had ruined everything. Steph had arrived feeling like a movie star, but left convinced her dress had been dated and dumpy, that her hair—which she’d thought looked rather Julia Robertsy—resembled a bad eighties perm, and that her freckled arms and shoulders were an affront to all things feminine and desirable. It had been so dispiriting, she’d skipped her senior prom altogether.
“I can’t believe I’m actually looking forward to this,” she said as Patrick merged them onto the highway.
“Because of your cousin? She’ll be so busy, you could probably just do a half-assed, drive-by congratulations and avoid her the rest of the night.”
“Here’s hoping. She was so horrible to me my entire childhood.”
“Is this some big makeover moment, where you show off how awesome you look, and that you’re a celebrity and everything?”
She laughed. “I’m not a celebrity.”
“You’re in magazines.”
“MMA magazines. In sidebars.”
“You’ve got a Wikipedia entry.”
She blinked. “Do I?”
“Yup. I bookmarked it. Your little profile picture’s bad-ass. You’re kicking some blonde chick in the arm.”
“Huh. Well, if I’m completely honest, yes, this is a bit of a revenge opportunity.”
He shot her a grin.
“What?”
“And you picked me to show off to your cousin, right? Not some fancy guy from Spark?”
“You’re more handsome than any guy Jenna’s set me up with, and yes, that did factor a bit.”
“Nice.”
She laughed. “I guess I didn’t need to bother worrying you’d feel used.”
“You plan on using me for any other purposes, before the night’s over?”
She smirked, blushing. “I may.”
“Well, I don’t know that a woma
n’s ever told me point-blank that she intends to exploit my handsomeness then use me for sex. And I can’t say it’s leaving me feeling too much of anything aside from smug.”
And with that fun tone set for the day, they passed the rest of the drive in easy conversation and singing along to the classic rock station.
They arrived at Steph’s childhood home right on time. She hugged her parents and introduced them to Patrick, and just as expected, the men quickly fell into a conversation about some union dispute that had made the news, leaving Steph and her mom to head upstairs and get ready.
“He seems awfully nice,” her mother called. She was changing in her bedroom, Steph in the adjoining bathroom.
“He is.”
“And awfully handsome.”
“He’s awfully great in almost every way,” Steph assured her, “but we’re not a couple or anything. We’re just casual.”
“What a waste.”
Steph smoothed the dress and made her first entrance of the night, eager to draw her mom away from the topic of Patrick’s wonderfulness.
“Oh, Penny.” Her mom abandoned an effort to clasp her necklace.
“Steph, Mom. Please.”
“Sorry, honey. Oh my, you look beautiful.”
“You, too.”
“Turn,” her mom directed, twirling her finger. “Just look at that.” She descended on the dress, stroking and preening and making Steph swish this way and that. “And all these years I’ve worried about you breaking your neck... It’s almost worth it, for your figure, isn’t it?”
They did their makeup and hair in front of the old vanity. Steph slipped into her heels and tossed a compact and lip gloss in the little clutch purse she’d bought, and they met the men downstairs. They hadn’t moved from the kitchen, though the conversation had shifted to hockey.
“Well, look at you two!” her dad said, goggling wildly at them.
Patrick didn’t say a word, though his eyes spoke volumes. His eyes said things that Steph gladly would have paid two hundred and fifty dollars to hear, things that made her feel at once angelic and devilish.
