Page 73 of The Fake Out

Me: Were they okay with the prices?

Wren: Yes. No fight there either. We’ll list all three on the July 20th date.

Me: Great. When do you need them?

Wren: Probably week after next for photos. Can you make that happen?

Me: Hopefully.

“Stupid or not stupid?” I asked for a second time, rubbing my hands along the hem of the pin-striped jersey. It fell just above my knee, so it wasn’t too short. Although I never planned to wear it out of the house, so I supposed it didn’t matter.

“You made that?” Mila cocked her head as she leaned closer to the screen. “How?”

“TikTok taught me.” That didn’t matter. I just wanted to know if this was a dumb idea before I embarrassed myself. “Linc?”

“I’m with Mila. How did you make a dress out of his jersey?”

With a sigh, I rushed through the explanation so we could get back to my question. “I bought a jersey a few sizes too big so I’d get a good amount of length. Then I trimmed the extra fabric off the sides to fit it to me. After I did that, I squared the neckline, because if you have boobs you need cleavage, or it’s just unflattering. Then I stitched it up with my serger and sewed up the button line so it wouldn’t pull open.”

“You brought your serger to Boston?” Mila asked.

“Mi, I brought everything I didn’t sell to Boston. I don’t own anything that isn’t with me.” I shifted from one foot to the other on my wedges. “So, is this dumb? He texted me fifteen minutes ago to say he landed. He should be here soon.” I waved my hands up and down the dress.

“I mean…” Linc looked me over from top to bottom and back. “Hair is perfection. You wanded that shit up. I’m always jealous of your lashes. Like, babe, people pay for the length God just gave you.”

Although I appreciated the compliments, I’d gone to school for hair and makeup, so that wasn’t my worry.

“The dress looks super hot.” Mila nodded.

“And the red lips are a nice touch. Every straight male dreams of red lips around his cock.” Linc shrugged.

Sighing, I flopped onto the chair. “Guys, I meant the idea. Is this stupid?”

Mila shook her head. “It’s a thing. At least in books.” She sat up straight and clasped her hands, all formal-like, as if she was teaching a class. “Men who play sports like to see the girl they’re sleeping with wearing their jersey. Brings out that alpha dominance.”

“True,” Linc jumped in. “Whereas I prefer?—”

“I don’t want to know.” Mila cut him off, and they both cracked up.

“So leave it on?” I asked.

“Yes. And we want all the details.” Linc waggled his brow.

“Some details. I don’t need nor want them all.” Mila frowned.

“Nope, we want them all. Every single one, down to exactly how veiny his cock is.” Linc smirked.

“Never going to happen, but thanks.” I tapped the End button on my phone, and the image of my friends was replaced with my home screen. With a glance at the time, I changed the oven from bake to warm so the manicotti wouldn’t burn and then tossed a wet paper towel over the salad and stuck it in the fridge. The wine was open and breathing on the counter. Everything was perfect.

The small click of the lock hit me a second before the door pushed open.

“Damn, it smells good in here,” Emerson said, his voice quiet.

I leaned against the counter and cocked a hip.

“Gi?” his deep voice called.

Second-guessing my pose, I crossed my legs so they’d look smaller, then I shifted again and was half in a new position when he walked into the kitchen space. So rather than looking sexy, I looked like a cat, frozen and wide-eyed, ready to pounce.

---