Page 173 of Elite Connections: an LGBTQ Romance Charity Anthology

Elle

Why don’t you come here and get ready with me?

Margot

Are you worried you’ll be embarrassed by me? Don’t worry, I’ll leave my potato sack in the car.

Elle

Please. My entire life is an embarrassment to my parents. It’s definitely not that.

Margot

Then what is it?

Elle

I just thought you might like to borrow some clothes is all.

Margot

Uh-huh. Tell me again how you’re not embarrassed.

Elle

You’re the world’s most frustrating person. You could show up in titty tassels and a thong for all I care, it’s you I’m worried about, love. These people are mean. No matter how good you look in just about anything, they’ll be able to smell your middle class status before you walk into the room.

Margot

You’re really selling me on them.

Elle

I don’t want to sell you on them. I want you to be comfortable. Now do you want to stand out, or blend in? If it’s the second option, get your cute butt over here.

Well,she has me there. Damn it. I’m so much more comfortable in jeans, but if I can avoid being the talk of the party for all the wrong reasons, I might just make it through the night. You know, provided Elle stops casually dropping compliments all over the place.

The frustrating thing is that I don’t know if she’s doing it on purpose or if she’s blissfully unaware—she didn’t even react when I mentioned being queer. The conversation the other day about how she feels toward men and women really opened my eyes to a few things.

One, she has no romantic interest in men at all.

And two, maybe the reason she’s such a mess around women is because she’s attracted to them.

I don’t know if those thoughts have even crossed her mind before because she was so genuinely confused by the whole thing. And I get it. She’s sexually attracted to men, like she’s probably been told she should be her whole life, so how the hell is she supposed to tell the difference? If Elle’s never been in love, and I strongly suspect she hasn’t, does she even know what it feels like? What to look for?

I hit the brakes on those thoughts because even if I’m right, Elle has no issues talking to me, which renders my whole theory useless when it comes to any ideas I have for starting something with her.

These last few weeks together have flown past, and while we both still pick up on dumb stuff each other says, it’s more comfortable now. Teasing. The type of teasing that makes me smile without meaning to.

I pull on the first clothes I find in my closet and head over to her apartment. She’s been painting today, if the smear of green on her jaw is anything to go by, and before I can stop myself, I tug my sleeve down over my hand and rub at the spot.

Elle freezes.

“Sorry. You’ve just …” I shift my hand to check I’ve gotten it all. “There you go.”

“Thanks.” She steps back, cheeks getting splotchy red. “I picked something out for you.”

My high at making her blush crashes fast. If it’s anything like the floor-length dress she’s wearing, I might have to leave her to handle this thing solo.

The only thing worse than going to some fancy event in my jeans would be wearing that dress. Even though it looks really, really hot on her. Some kinda flowy material that falls straight to the ground, leaving no part of her mouthwatering ass or gorgeous tits to the imagination.

I drag my eyes away, trying to get this growing ache for her to settle.

I’m not into straight girls, but Elle isn’t giving me much reason to believe that label applies to her.

She leads me into her bedroom, where she’s laid out … I grin. “A suit?”

“Well … yes. I may have had it made. For you.”

“For me?”

“It’s just that I knew you wouldn’t like any of my dresses, and you’re a lot curvier than me, so my clothes probably wouldn’t have worked and?—”

“And?”

She pulls her bony shoulders up in something that looks half like a shrug and half like she’s trying to protect herself. “I thought it might look good on you.”

I’m not good with words. Not good at voicing my appreciation or gratitude. I pick up the jacket, and it’s not heavy or bulky, more like silk or satin or something fancy.

“Try it on,” Elle says, dropping to sit on the edge of her bed. “Please?”

I’m not going to say no, but also … “You’re staying?”

“Should I not?”

“Ah. No. It’s fine.”

She laughs. “One of my friends is a nudist, so naked bodies really don’t worry me. But if you’re uncomfortable, I can go.”

“No. It’s cool.” I’m a motherfucking grown-up, damn it. This is nothing.

It’s sort of hard to convince myself of that when I’m struggling to remember if I at least wore decent underwear.

I’m fast and efficient as I strip out of my clothes and reach over to pick up the shirt. It’s a black lacy thing that I’m ninety percent sure is going to have a real task controlling my boobs, but when I go to pull it on, I make the mistake of looking over at Elle.

She’s staring at me, eyes running slowly down my body, and very fucking blatantly checking me. And I bet she has no fucking clue she’s doing it.

This is torture. Standing here, wanting to get dressed while also wanting Elle to appreciate every goddamn inch of me. Tingles race over my body, pooling between my legs, and it takes my seriously shit willpower to stop from offering to take everything off if she wants a closer look.

I force my limbs to work again and pull the shirt over my head, then look down at the sight of my very ample cleavage trying to greet the world.

“Is this the right size?”

Elle nods. “Yeah,” she rasps before clearing her throat. “That’s perfect.”

“If you say so.”

I pull on the forest-green pants, tightening them at my waist with a thick belt, and then tug on the jacket. I have to hand it to her, I feel like a million dollars as I turn and inspect myself in the mirror. If she didn’t know my exact measurements, she wasn’t far off because it’s easily the nicest and most fitted thing I’ve ever worn. Even the top doesn’t look as X-rated with the rest on.

Elle walks up behind me and pulls back my hair. “Can I do it for you?”

“I was going to leave it out.”

She pouts, and it looks so playful I roll my eyes.

“Fine. Do whatever you want.”

So she does, and by the time she’s done pulling my hair back into a sleek ponytail and doing my makeup, I barely recognize myself.

“This is fucking weird,” I mutter.

“Just say thank you.”

“Thank you.”

She actually lights up as she fastens a necklace around me. Then she pauses, hands by neck, and meets my eyes in our reflection. “You look beautiful.” Her fingers tickle my neck. “I wish I was as pretty as you.”

She has got to be fucking kidding me.

I turn to face her, noticing for the first time she’s wearing green too. It’s super pale compared to mine, but we’re definitely going to this thing matching.

With all my nerves in my throat, I reach out and tilt her chin up until she meets my eyes again. “You always look amazing. Stunning. So fucking gorgeous that I thought girls like you looked that way through filters and Photoshop.” My thumb brushes over her cheek as my voice softens. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Elle stands so fast I almost fall off the stool. “Yes. Right. Well, you too. You’re a fabulous friend. One of the best. Even if I am paying you and that’s the only reason you’re hanging about, I still enjoy your company anyway.”

There’s a loud buzz from down the hall.

“That must be the car. You ready? Good. Excellent. Let’s go.”

She leaves without waiting for me, her handbag still sitting on the bed. My whole body feels like dirt as I push to my feet, grab her bag, and follow her.

I shouldn’t have pushed.

I knew I shouldn’t.

I’m all caught up in my head over my dumb theories that maybe I’m hoping so much that she isn’t straight when that’s all that she is.

And now I’ve made her uncomfortable. Great. Not only will I get a rude awakening when she fires me, Perry’s going to be the one on the hook for it all.

My lack of impulse control got me into this mess, and that’s what’s going to get me fired from it as well.

Woo-fucking-hoo, Margot. Looks like I need to stop giving Perry a hard time about being a screwup because I’m just as much of a mess as he is.