Just a Number(48)
They don’t notice me at first, but then again, I don’t stand there and stare for more than a split second before I go back to my task of putting the plate out. Dad must hear it hit the table, because he turns around to look at me, his arm still casually draped around Carla as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, while she laughs into his shoulder about something.
“Hey, Amy. How’s everything going?”
“Good,” I tell him. “Everything’s going really well. You two go back to…whatever it is you were talking about.” I offer them a big smile that tells them I’m more than happy for the both of them. And I am…but I’m also kind of hoping Dad will remember this moment and take it into consideration when Owen and I finally tell him about us. I won’t put too much stock into that idea, but I can hold onto a little bit of hope for the very slight possibility.
It’s almost seven o’clock when I run upstairs to change into the red dress I bought for the party tonight. While we’re pretty laid back most of the time, we like to dress up for our Christmas parties. I always buy a new dress for the occasion, and this year, I may have spent a little more than I normally would. But only because this year I have someone I’m dressing up for—even though no one else knows this. I lock my bedroom door and strip down, pulling the red chiffon dress from the garment bag I’d hung in my closet. I pull it on, putting the slightly off-shoulder straps in place. I’d bought the dress because it hugged my upper body all the way down to my hips before it flowed out in a soft A-line skirt to my knees and flattered my curves. The neckline was high enough it wasn’t trashy, sloping into a very shallow scoop that sat against my chest while showing off the lines of my collarbone and shoulders. It’s a classy dress, and I have a feeling that Owen is going to lose his mind.
Which, in hindsight, I’m starting to think, maybe, this isn’t the best time to test that theory. Shit.
It’s too late, now; it’s the only dress I have here, and every other piece of clothing is far too casual for tonight. It’ll have to do. I’ll apologize to him later if I have to. After getting dressed, I pull my hair away from my face, save for a few face-framing tendrils that refuse to cooperate, but they look all right, so I leave them instead of fighting an impossible battle. I’ve never been a big makeup wearer, usually only bothering with the basics, but tonight, I apply eye shadow for a dramatic smoky-eye effect and a red-tinted lip gloss. Once I’ve finished up, I smooth the lines of my dress one last time and look in the mirror before grabbing the solid black pumps I brought along. I’m just pulling the second shoe on when there’s a light knock on my door.
“Amelia, it’s me,” Owen calls softly through the door. “I just need my things so I can get ready.”
Smiling, I swing the door open to let him in. His eyes widen as they travel down my body, and he inhales an unsteady breath. “You look… That dress…” He’s at a loss for words; score one for me. And also, crap, because, while I’m thoroughly enjoying his reaction, I still worry that the dress is a mistake when it comes to keeping our secret.
“Thanks,” I say, a soft blush filling my cheeks.
His eyes snap back to mine, full of seriousness and desire. “No, really,” he says, lowering his voice. “Wow.”
I can see that he wants to kiss me—I want that, too—but before either of us gets swept up in the moment, I grab his things and hold them up between us. “Here’s your stuff. I’m done with the room, so please feel free to change in here.”
As I descend the stairs to the main floor, I feel Owen’s eyes on me for a few seconds, and I shoot him a quick glance over my shoulder before my door clicks shut. Part of me regrets us not manning up and telling Dad about us right after Thanksgiving, because maybe things would be different tonight. Maybe Dad would let us bunk together (doubtful), and maybe he’d look at us and smile as I looped my arm through Owen’s and laughed at all his jokes (ha!). Deep down, I know that had we told him after Thanksgiving, the possibility of tonight even happening would be low, but I’m still curious about the “what ifs.”
I give the food and beverage tables another once-over as the doorbell rings, signaling the arrival of the first few guests. Dad’s invited a few of his coworkers who I’ve only met a couple of times, and Carla’s invited her sister and her family, as well as a few people from her workplace. The Carlsons show up minus their son, Alex, who’s at his girlfriend’s parents’ house tonight. The Murphys were invited but couldn’t make it, which I already knew because Liz wouldn’t stop talking about her Christmas in Mexico. Was I jealous? Maybe a little at first, but not enough to want to give up my yearly tradition with my dad.