Part 16 (1/2)

”As you wish,” I say turning around, checking out my reflection in the mirror. I do look kind of pretty.

”That one's nice for the first time,” she says. ”It's demure and cla.s.sy. You don't want to come off too h.o.r.n.y the first time.”

I turn to her and smile. She can be so funny.

”Save the red set for when you really want to get f.u.c.ked hard,” she says.

My jaw drops. ”Gwen!”

”What?” she says with a quick shrug of her shoulders, one leg crossed over the other, still filing her nails.

I smile at her. Sometimes I ask myself how in the heavens she and I fit so well together.

Well, it's finally here.

The night I have been anxiously waiting for...our first ”date.”

Part of me wants it to be over before it begins. And the other part wants to discover it slowly...and all its possibilities.

Gabe seems as nervous as I am. I help him pick out an outfit-we settle on sleek black dress pants and a striped gray and black b.u.t.ton s.h.i.+rt.

I stand next to him and study his reflection in the tall mirror hung in our walk-in closet. ”I think Bridget will like this.”

He doesn't say a word.

I look miniscule in my slip of a dress, standing next to his tall frame. ”This is so weird.”

”We are so f.u.c.ked up,” he says simply, a hint of humor in his expression.

”I still can't believe we're actually going through with this.”

He wraps his hand softly around the curve of my hip. ”Me either. Are we crazy?”

”Yes.”

”Are you having second thoughts? We can still call it off, you know.”

I think about Weston, about the last time I saw him, dressed in a charcoal tailored suit, the brilliant green of his eyes peering at me through gorgeous lashes as he went over the ”rules” so diligently. And I think about his hand on my knee that time at his office and the electrifying current it sent through me.

I smile up at Gabe's reflection. ”No...let's do this.”

I smile at Edward as he opens the car door for me. I've got this down pat now-I'm supposed to wait and let him open the door for me. It kind of makes me feel like a movie star. I take his welcoming hand as I gingerly step out of the town car. I run my manicured fingers (today, both my hands and feet look amazing) along the lace on my dress (one of those impulse buys I thought I'd never get to wear-vintage-inspired, sheer, cream, delicate, lace-trimmed and tiny). The dress almost looks like a slip that could easily be torn off-and that's the point. I've worn the lacy white set underneath, the demure one.

The air is surprisingly hot and humid tonight. My up-do, sheer dress, and strappy sandals were a perfect choice. Weston is waiting for me when I enter the restaurant, a small, casual, intimate Italian place.

I clutch my beaded bag nervously. For a brief second, I worry I'm going to be sick and hurl all over the quaint black and white tiled flooring.

The expression on his face is unmistakable.

He likes my dress.

He leans in and gives me a light kiss on the cheek. ”You look lovely.” My knees almost give out.

He kissed me.

The food is delicious but I can't quite appreciate it-I'm just too on edge. Weston seems to have a healthy appet.i.te-completely unaffected. What is it with men? Why do these kinds of things not affect them? Perhaps they just hide it better.

My gaze travels to the jars of pasta sauce and bottles of olive oil lined along the wall. I think about Gabe and Bridget and wonder what they're doing at this exact moment. And I push the thoughts immediately out of my mind.

Weston and I don't say much. And he doesn't really look at me-his eyes seem to be glued to the red and white checkered table cloth.

He occasionally puts his knife down and rubs the back of his neck or traces circles along the bottom of his wine gla.s.s. I watch him, fork mid-air, completely fascinated by his quirks.

He's just as nervous as I am.

Even on edge, he's gorgeous-dressed in a dark striped s.h.i.+rt, open at the collar. He doesn't wear his customary cufflinks tonight.

He sets his gla.s.s on the table and finally ventures a look up at me and puts his hand softly on mine. ”I want you to know...”

His touch lights me up.

”I have no expectations. Let's just see where the night leads.”

He's so sweet. I breathe a little easier, realizing there's really no reason to worry. Whatever happens, I know he'll treat me with respect.

I twirl my fork in my pasta repeatedly. ”I can't eat,” I confess. ”I'm too anxious.”

He smiles at me.

”You should try to eat,” he presses. ”You need energy.”

For what?

I think he catches the look of horror on my face. ”A walk would be nice later,” he says, a smile playing on his lips. His smile always makes me melt. I don't want to go for a walk-I want to go straight to his bed.

He picks up his fork again and cuts into his veal. ”What do think of this place?” he asks. ”I know it's not much. I wanted this night to be casual,” he adds. ”Is it to your liking?”

I look around the quaint restaurant. It has a certain charm, but it's not quite as s.e.xy as I would have liked. All I can think about is s.e.x.

”Do you like Italian food?” he asks, fork mid-air.

”I do. Doesn't everyone?”

”I think so,” he says. ”Didn't you say you were part Italian?”

”Yes. One quarter Italian and three quarters Irish.”