“My sense,” Jo agreed. “Not quite Paris runway but …” She shrugged and angled her head to the bedroom. “Any idea what your brother is wearing? That might help me narrow down choices.”
“Hopefully not something with throw up on it.”
“What?” Jo froze and looked over her shoulder. “Is Trace sick?”
Bea’s eyes widened. “No, why?”
“What’s with the throw up talk?”
“Because of …” Bea froze, as if someone had pushed the pause button on the remote. “Because of the dog,” she finished slowly. “He got a dog the other day.”
“Oh.” Odd. Why would a dog throw up on his things? Wouldn’t it be outside? “I’m assuming you’re inviting yourself in for a fashion consultation.”
“That I am.” Bea stood and followed her into the bedroom. “This might be almost as much fun as dressing my dog.”
Jo stopped short. “You got a dog? You mean the same dog as Trace, right?”
“No. A cute little Boston terrier.” Bea looked proud and flipped through her cell phone a moment before holding out the screen. “See? His name is Milton, and he’s adorable.”
Jo stared at the face only a mother—or someone squinting—could love and her heart melted a little. “Aw, he’s cute.”
“See!” Bea pumped a fist. “I told them he was cute, but nobody believed me. He’s going to be even cuter in the new sweater vest I’m giving him.”
“Too far.” Jo took another step, then paused. “Uh, is Peyton or Trace helping you take care of him?”
Bea looked offended. “Why does nobody think I can take care of another living thing?”
It was too easy. She let the softball pass her by.
Bea scowled. “I can hear what you’re thinking. I’m not a screwup.”
Jo dug through her closet, searching for outfits she would have worn to meet a man a year or so ago. They were deep in the recesses of her closet, she realized. Wow, she’d really packed that side of herself away, literally.
“I’m not a screwup.”
“Okay.” Her voice was muffled by a sweater.
“Everyone just thinks I am because I let them.” The superior tone in Bea’s voice made her smile. “It’s easier to get out of things if people assume you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I think I just heard every feminist in the Western hemisphere gasp and cough.”
“I’m not a feminist. I’m a Bea-ist.”
Jo had to sit down before she laughed so hard she fell into a pile of last season’s boots.
“What?” Bea crossed her arms and stared at her. “It’s a real thing. My yoga instructor told me it was. Something about being your own advocate and finding your inner goddess and blah-blah-blah.”
“Your yoga instructor was high on granola and downward dogs.” Jo brushed at her eyes. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
Trace waited not so patiently on the small front step of Jo’s apartment. He’d dusted off his only pair of dress slacks and a nice button-down shirt. No tie, too formal. No snaps, too informal. Just the right balance, he thought, pleased with himself.
He wondered how Jo would dress. He imagined she’d try to keep it as casual as possible, with her allergy to relationships. Somehow he could easily see her showing up in jeans and a T-shirt that said “FU” or something equally vulgar. Probably she’d assume he would rather stay home and slip into bed than take her out.
He grinned. He’d take her out, vulgar shirt and all. There was no way he would let her escape this important step.
After another few moments, he knocked again. The light was on, that much he could see. But the shades were closed, so he didn’t know where she was in the apartment.
Finally, he heard footsteps approach the door, and the locks disengage. All—he counted with each sound—five of them.
Five? Huh. Then again, she did live above a bar.
When she opened the door, he prepared himself to compliment her regardless of what outfit she’d decided to go with. But the predetermined words stuck in his throat at the sight that greeted him.
Her hair was down, waved and lightly curled in some just-out-of-bed look. Her makeup was more pronounced than he’d seen on her before, with smoky eyes and deep lips. The number she wore left her shoulders mostly bare but for thin straps that were sheer black, almost invisible when paired with her dark hair. The neckline was low, though not plunging. And the skirt hit right above her knee. The outfit complimented her body, showing off the curves he knew she disliked to their full potential.