Page 19 of Fun Together (Make Romance #1)

Eli

Did I say I was looking forward to shopping? I take that back.

I haven’t been to the mall in years because I usually order anything I need online, so I don’t have to do exactly what we’ve been doing for the last thirty minutes. Has it only been thirty minutes? Feels like way longer.

Pretty sure we walked by an escape room on our way to Urban Outfitters, and I understand why they’re here.

“Remind me why I agreed to this again?”

Faye is looking through a rack of shirts while I stand off to the side. It feels like I’m a kid again, back to school shopping for clothes with my mom. I battle a childlike, instinctive urge to hide inside the clothing racks and jump out to scare her.

“Because you want to look nice for the party and put some effort into your appearance.”

I choose to ignore that this implies I don’t usually put effort into my appearance and instead do what I do best. Distract myself by talking. “Did you guess my lie this morning?”

“Of course,” she says, like it was too easy.

“How did you know it?”

She pauses her rapid swiping of hangers to turn toward me. “Because you are so not a Star Wars kind of guy.”

My lie was that The Empire Strikes Back is my favorite movie.

“What kind of guy am I?”

She tilts her head to the side and bites her bottom lip. And I find that I’m the kind of guy who hasn’t stopped thinking about what it’d be like to kiss that bottom lip ever since that night at the bar. The kind of guy who wants desperately to know what kind of guy she thinks I am.

“You’re more of a Lord of the Rings kind of guy.”

“Well, who doesn’t like Lord of the Rings ?”

“I bet I can even guess your favorite character.” She moves to another rack and holds up a shirt in front of me before placing it back. “Legolas. For sure.”

“Obviously. He’s the best character.”

She looks up, dreamy expression on her face. “I prefer Aragorn.”

“You know, you kind of look like Arwen.”

“I wish,” she says, holding up a short-sleeved button down with a bunch of flowers on it. “Do you like this?”

“Too whimsical.” I spot a gray shirt on the end of the rack that looks comfortable and hold it up. “How about this?”

“Are you allergic to patterns?”

“I’m allergic to uncomfortable clothes.”

I follow her around the store for a few more minutes until she shoves the shirts she’s been collecting into my chest.

“Let me grab a few things to try on. We’ll meet in the dressing room area.”

Ten minutes later I’m stepping out of the dressing room in a shirt that looks like it was pulled straight from my dad’s closet in the nineties. “I don’t think purple is my color,” I say.

“It’s not that bad. It’s just not . . . you.”

“It’s not me, because I’m not allowed to wear any of my own clothes.”

“No need to get grumpy. We’ll find something new that’s still you.”

I’m not so sure about that, but I go back to try on the next thing, a blue and white striped button-down. It’s as soft as a worn-in T-shirt and I still feel like myself in it. I step out of the room and do slow spin. “Survey says?”

She doesn’t say anything and stares at me for a few seconds.

I wonder if I completely misjudged, and the shirt looks terrible.

But then I see her eyes do a slightly imperceptible scan of my body and I wonder if she might actually be checking me out.

I resist the urge to make a teasing comment about it for fear that she’ll stop looking at me.

Her voice is a bit gravelly when she says, “I think that looks really good.”

“Perfect,” I say as I turn to head back inside the dressing room.

I reluctantly change back into my old shirt, not wanting to take off the new one if it means Faye looks at me the way she just looked at me.

When I come back out, we swap places so that I’m now sitting on the bench outside the dressing room.

“Thanks for your help,” I say, in an attempt to drown out the sound of clothing falling off her body. I look up at the fluorescent lights to will myself not to think about the fact that I’m about three feet away from a half naked Faye. “Maybe I can wear this on my date this weekend.”

“With the woman your mom is setting you up with?”

I watch her bare feet move around in the space between the bottom of the door and the floor. Her toenails are painted cherry red. “Yeah. We’re going to a brewery downtown.”

Her feet stop moving and she doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. She clears her throat. “That should be fun,” she says brightly.

“Yeah. It should be a good time.” That’s what I’m hoping, anyway.

She comes out in a green dress that flows down to her ankles. “How do we feel about this one?”

I already know I’m going to like anything she puts on, but in an effort to not sound like a dog salivating over a potential meal, I say, “It looks nice.”

“I can’t look nice. I need to look ravishing.” She does a couple of turns in the mirror. “Too many ruffles.” She goes back in, and I hear the rustle of fabric. “I think I may need your help with this one. I can’t get the zipper up.” She cracks the dressing room door open so I can step inside.

This dress is black with little white flowers all over it and it’s much more form-fitting than the last one.

The zipper starts at the base of her back and I drag it up, forcing my eyes not to snag on what I can see of her bra, pale pink with lace trim.

Some pieces of hair have fallen out of her bun, and I brush them to the side so they don’t get caught as I bring the zipper to the nape of her neck.

“All set,” I say, my own voice full of gravel now.

Our eyes meet in the mirror. One second. Two seconds. “Thank you,” she says.

We step out of the dressing room, and she asks my opinion on this one. I try to form a sentence but the only words I can seem to form are, “It’s . . . really pretty.”

It’s funny, because I always have something to say. But when met with Faye in this dress, I’m left without a single thought other than an embarrassingly caveman-like impulse to pull her close to me. This shopping trip has become the best and worst time I’ve ever spent with a woman.

“You’re right, you’re a terrible shopping buddy. Is it too revealing?” As she asks this, she adjusts the front of the dress, moving her boobs into a different position. My brain short-circuits.

“Um . . . you’re wearing this for your date with Cameron?”

I think part of me is asking this to remind myself that this dress isn’t for me. It’s for fucking Cameron from the fucking coffee shop with the fucking Instagram videos.

“Yes.” She turns to look at the back of the dress in the floor length mirror outside the dressing rooms. Do not look at her ass in the reflection. Do not look at her ass in the reflection.

“That’s a good date dress.”

Her shoulders droop and I worry that I’m going too far in a neutral direction with my comments and I’ve made her deflate like that. “I just want to get it over with.”

“Are you dreading it?”

“It’s not that. It’s just—I haven’t been with anyone since Andrew, and I want to get the whole sleeping with some part over with.”

“Okay, so you’re just wanting to have a casual hook up thing.” This is more painful that the time the novocain wore off before my root canal was finished.

“Exactly. So do you think this dress will send that message to him?”

I bark out a laugh. Because if I don’t laugh, I’ll probably do something super embarrassing like groan, because I’d consider that mission accomplished.

I’ve seriously got to get a grip. Faye and I have become really good friends again. And Andrew is my best friend. Can’t forget that very important detail.

“You look great.” Then, my mouth speeds ahead of my brain and I add, “But you don’t need a dress to make someone want to be with you. You always look good.”

This makes a tiny flush bloom on her cheeks, and she smiles fully, teeth and all. I take this as her being pleased with my compliment and, as always, I feel high from this reaction from her.

“Then I’d say we have a winner,” she says.

I wish I had an industrial freezer I could sleep in tonight.