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HARLOW

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Brooke, my best friend and roommate, asks when she discovers me sitting on the couch with a blanket over my lap, a tub of ice cream in hand, and a rum and Coke on the coffee table.

“Err … Friday night in?” I say, my brows drawing together, trying to figure out if I’ve forgotten something. The look on her face and the way she’s standing impatiently with her hands on her hips sure points to that.

She’s had a long week at work, so I was expecting her to take up residence on the other couch with a glass of wine while we caught up with her favorite trashy reality show.

“It’s Milo’s birthday,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

“Right …”

“We’re going out. We’re meeting everyone at Club 52 in”—she pulls her cell from her back pocket and looks at the time—”in like … an hour. So we need to get our shit together.”

Before I have a chance to argue, she’s standing before me and pulling the ice cream from my hand.

“Come on, H. Move that sexy ass and go and find a hot little dress to wear.”

After depositing the tub on the coffee table, she rips the blanket from my lap and attempts to pull me from my hibernation spot on the couch.

“Really?” I sulk. “Milo won’t care if I’m there or not. I barely know the guy.” We might work for the same organization, but it’s not like we spend any actual time together, other than the odd charity event.

“I told him you’ll be there,” she says, wiggling her brows, clearly excited that she’s going to get to hang out with the team tonight.

“But you didn’t think to tell me,” I mutter before eventually going easy on her and standing.

“I could have sworn I’d mentioned it.”

“When could you? You’ve hardly been home this week.”

She shrugs. “Well, you know now. It’s going to be a great night.”

She ushers me out of the living room—thankfully after I rescue my drink. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.

When we get to my room, she at least affords me the decency to get ready alone, which is a relief. The last thing I need tonight is a Brooke makeover.

Thirty minutes later, after smoothing down my silk top, I add a layer of gloss to my lips and slip my feet into my court shoes.

Brooke’s still sitting in front of her mirror when I join her in her room.

“How are you ready al—no, no, no. You can’t wear that,” she says, looking at me in the mirror. I glance down at my skinny jeans and black blouse.

“Why not? It’s perfectly fine.”

“Yeah, for an afternoon with your aunt.”

Minus the height of my heels, I can’t argue with her.

She spins on her chair, and I get a look at her dress—if it can even be described as such. It’s fire-engine red; I swear I’ve got underwear that covers more skin.

I run my eyes over her, suspicion stirring in my stomach. “This isn’t just a night out for Milo’s birthday, is it?”

“His cousin’s coming.”

And now, it all starts to make sense.

“The British one?”

“Yes! I can’t wait to hear him say my name.” She swoons, getting this far-off look in her eyes.

I shouldn’t be surprised—she’s been telling me about him for quite a few weeks now and trying to convince Milo to introduce them.

“You mean moan your name,” I mutter.

“Harlow, I’m not some easy piece of ass, you know.”

“Really?” I ask, my brows lifting, my lips curling in amusement.

“Okay, so maybe I am, but only for the right guy.”

“Riiight.”

She gets up from her seat and walks toward her wardrobe, thankfully pulling her ridiculously short dress down in the process so I don’t have a front-row seat to her easy ass.

“Now, let’s see what I’ve got.”

“Oh no, B. You’re not getting me in one of your dresses. They barely fit you; they’ll never cover my ass and tits.”

“Have faith, girl. Have faith.”

Sadly, I have little. I love Brooke, but she has questionable taste at times. Our styles are opposite in every way—not just with how much skin we deem acceptable to expose.

“Yessss!” she squeals, and my stomach drops into my heels. “This will look killer on you.”

She pulls out a scrap of navy fabric and holds it up in front of me with a wide smile on her face.

“You won’t catch me dead wearing that.”

“Just try it on. It’s a little big for me.” I don’t see how that’s possible, considering it looks like it’s a size zero from this distance, but I keep my mouth shut. “It’ll be perfect. And,” she adds, an idea hitting her, “it might help with your little … situation .”

“I’m not in the middle of anything,” I protest. “And like you just said, we’re going out with the team.

” I swipe the hanger from her because I already know that fighting her on this is pointless.

I may as well just try it on, prove it doesn’t fit, and then hope she’ll allow me to revisit my wardrobe for a dress that might actually cover what God gave me.

“There will be other guys there, too. It’s been what? A year since a guy so much as touched you?”

It’s been almost a year and a half since my last failed attempt at a date, but I refrain from correcting her.

I shimmy my jeans down my legs and carefully pull my blouse off before laying them out over Brooke’s bed. “What?” I ask when she shakes her head at me.

“You know it is okay to sometimes leave clothes in a pile on the floor, right?”

I roll my eyes, and she hands me the dress once I’m in only my underwear.

Deciding that pulling it up might be the easiest option, I step into the fabric and attempt to drag it over my hips.

The material has more stretch than I gave it credit for, because it skims happily over my curves.

I pull the straps up my arms and put them into place over my shoulders before looking down.

“Okay, you are so wearing that. Have you seen your ass?”

“Weirdly, no,” I sass, looking over my shoulder at the mirror behind me. I can’t deny that the fabric hugs it pretty nicely.

“You gotta lose the bra, though.”

“Nope. Not happening.”

Brooke’s hip juts out and she rests her hand on it as she stares at me in a ‘go on, try and argue’ way. “There’s enough support in the dress.”

“I’m sure it’ll hold them up just fine. I’m more worried about flashing someone.”

“Making your mission a sure success.”

“I’m not on a mission. I’m perfectly happy as?—”

“Nope. You need a man-induced orgasm. End of.”

I know I’ve been a little uptight recently, but it’s not my lack of male attention that’s causing it, and I doubt a night with one will solve the issue.

Brooke must see my shoulders drop, because she takes my hands in hers.

“I know you’re worried about her. I am too.

But sitting around the house feeling guilty about not being able to do more isn’t going to help.

No matter the results, you still have a life.

You may as well at least attempt to enjoy yourself. ”

“I guess.” I don’t feel all that enthused, but I know she’s right.

“Now, drink this,” she says, handing my glass back to me. “Then let the girls free, and we’re out of here.”

I tip my glass to my lips and swallow what’s left before doing as I’m told. I’m soon following Brooke out of the house to the waiting car. Despite my earlier disinterest, tingles of excitement start to ignite in my belly.

I can’t deny that I look good tonight. I also can’t deny that I’m currently showing more boob than I have to anyone outside the bedroom in too many years to count.

I shake the memories from my head and climb into the car as Brooke begins flirting with the driver.

Just because I’m dressed up and showing a little skin, it doesn’t mean I’m going back to a time in my life I’d rather forget.

I’m just going out for a night of drinking and dancing with my best friend.

It’s exactly what I should be doing. I’m young with no ties; a Friday night out for a colleague’s birthday should be a normal thing to do.

Brooke flashes me a wide smile, and I try to relax.

“Tonight’s going to be great. Reese and Fletch managed to secure the VIP section for us,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows.

I groan just like I do every time she mentions Fletch.

“Please don’t tell me you’re still scared of being in the same room as him?”

“I’m not scared,” I argue, although I’m not entirely sure that’s true.

“I just always make myself look like an idiot any time I’m near him.

I turn into a fumbling teenager.” My cheeks heat.

I don’t need to tell Brooke this—she’s witnessed my mortifying behavior time and time again when it comes to him.

Fletcher Ferguson. My teenage heartthrob, incredible hockey player, and all-around nice guy.

It should be illegal to be that good looking, kind, and generous.

I was obsessed with him in my former years, thanks to discovering a trashy magazine on the coffee table after school one day with him on the cover.

No matter how much time has passed, it seems the second I’m in his vicinity, I return to that point in my life when I had no idea how to control my raging hormones.

Or to keep a leash on my mouth.

“Oh, I know. Why do you think I demanded you come? You’re tonight’s entertainment,” she says with a laugh.

“B,” I squeal, swatting her shoulder playfully as she teases me. “I have no idea what’s wrong with me.”

“I get it. He’s … captivating.” Her eyes darken as she relives the one moment of her past that she’ll never let me forget. “And the way he kisses,” she says on a sigh.

“Oh, get over yourself.” I chuckle. “You know full well that he’s forgotten all about that. No woman other than Reese exists for him now.”

“I know. And I still stand by the fact that I rocked his world so much that night that he lost his mind a little after. I mean, why wouldn’t he want more of this?” She gestures to herself with a pout.

“No idea, B. No idea.”

“Well, I’m over it.” Based on how often she brings it up, I beg to differ. “I’ve got my sights set on a British banger tonight.”

I bark out a laugh. “Do you even know what this guy looks like?”

“Only in my imagination.”

“So he could be an old cockney with a beer belly and a bald head?”