Yes, this would be the greatest challenge of a lifetime.
And he was going to win.
4
Thirteen outfits. She’d tried on thirteen different outfits only to come to the ultimate conclusion that whatever she ended up wearing would feel completely and totally wrong. What could she possibly wear that would be appropriate for a non-date with her boss who also happened to be her friend and fake fiancé?
Somehow, a little black dress didn’t seem to cut it. Flirty sent the wrong message. But then, business casual was way too stuff. She pulled her too-deeply V’d tank from overhead and flung it to the ground. This was getting out of hand. One more wrong outfit, and she’d be itching skin, wishing she could change out of that, too.
On the bright side, at least the uneasiness was some distraction from the rage that consumed her when she got home.
Lance had left, just as she’d asked him to, but apparently he’d decided to leave with the vast majority of her stuff, as well. It wasn’t just his video game consoles and mountains of pornography that was gone. Oh, no. The cable wire jutted out of her wall where it used to connect with a flat screen TV that was no longer there, the kitchen counters were sad and bare where her bridal-shower-bestowed kitchen aid and microwave used to sit. Even the friggin scented plug in had been jacked from the bathroom.
The thieving rat.
As soon as she beheld the utter havoc he’d wrought, she was almost happy that Garret had forced her from her hidey-hole tonight. Even if it was for something between a war council and a business meeting, it would be nice to not be surrounded by reminders of all her terrible decisions.
She surveyed herself in the mirror that hung from the back of her bedroom door, hoping that outfit number fourteen would do the trick. It was surprisingly not bad. More casual than her usual pencil skirt and blazer that she wore to work. Her heels were moderate, a couple of inches off the ground to give her legs the illusion of not being stubby. Dark-washed Levi's and a top that sort of draped around her collar bone. It was nice. Something a person might go to lunch with their grandma in.
She pulled the shirt a little lower to reveal the slightest hint at her cleavage. Not for Garret or anything. But, well, she was single now. Maybe the waiter would write his number on the receipt or something.
She rolled her eyes. Right. If anyone left her their number, it would probably be some kind of CIA operative who was just using her for intel. Such was her luck.
The doorbell echoed through her now-empty halls and she clambered down the steps, nearly sliding against the hardwood as she rushed to the door. When she finally reached the entrance she stood in front of it for a moment, wishing she'd paused to fluff the pillows in her living room or make her house—what was left of it, anyway—a touch more presentable for her boss.
She swung open the door, and her breath caught. It was hard to play it off—it wound up sounding like something between a coughing fit and wheezing. But…well…
Damn.
She'd always known Garret was attractive in one of those authoritative kind of ways, like how police officers and firefighters looked sexier in uniform. Even if they were, like, fives or sixes, uniforms tended to make Doug Pitt into Brad Pitt. For most guys, that was just a general rule of thumb.
But Garret?
If she had never seen him before, she might have dropped her panties right there.
He wore faded jeans that hugged his hips, clinging to thighs that looked...her cheeks flamed, and she thought maybe it was better not pay too much attention to those. His T-shirt clung to his muscles, and highlighted a broad set of shoulders that she'd always assumed were exaggerated by his usual gray suit jacket.
There was no exaggeration there.
His dark, styled hair was the same, but he had a light five o'clock shadow, and the contour between his cheekbones and jaw line made him look like a freaking Versace ad.
It might have been a solid five minutes before she realized she was still staring at him. Not greeting him. Not saying anything.
And it might had been even longer if he hadn’t tilted his head to the side and asked, "Am I early?"
"No, no. You're good. Just, uh, let me get my coat."
"It's eighty degrees out here." He laughed, though there was a slight concern in his tone. Frankly, he was probably right to worry. She must have seemed pretty crazy at the moment and the frizzy mess of curls already sliding down the side of her head couldn’t have done anything to help matters.
"You never know when it’s going to rain," she shrugged, tossed a khaki jacket over her arm, and then flounced out the door, trying to hide her deep, calming breath from him.
"So I thought we should go to Pauper's Tavern. Do you like it there?" He opened a door on the passenger's side and stood behind it, gazing at her as he gestured into the car.