Page 39 of The Right Move

“You look lovely, too.”

My chest heaves. “I was going for intimidating, regal, and suave.”

She takes a step towards me, and between her natural height and the added inches from her heels she almost meets me eye to eye. “We’ll work on that for next time.”

It takes all my willpower to keep my hands at my side when all they want to do is rest on those hips. I can only imagine how cool the satin would feel against my palms, how small she would feel under my touch. She’s utter perfection, feminine and beautiful, but we’re roommates and she’s my sister’s best friend, and the only touching that should be done is while prying eyes are watching us. Only while prying eyes are watching us.

Her matching lilac fingernails find my tie as she straightens me out and I can’t help but watch her work. Her eyelids are shimmering, her cheeks are painted rose, and her lashes are darker than usual. Maybe it’s my angle, but they’re the perfect frame for her whiskey brown eyes as she fixates on my tie.

“You did a good job on your makeup.”

Her head snaps up, brows creased in confusion.

I motion towards my own face. “Your makeup. It looks pretty on you.”

“That’s a weird thing to say.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re supposed to say you like me natural or something to that extent. That’s the typical opinion of the male species.”

“Well, what can I say? I’m not like other guys.”

She catches onto the mocking tone of the cliché phrase as she rolls her eyes and releases a subtle laugh. “You’re funny sometimes, Shay.”

“Do you like your makeup? Did you spend time on it?”

She keeps her stare on my tie and not on me. “Yes.”

“Exactly. So, I think you should know you did a good job on it.”

Those rose-painted cheeks flame. “Thank you.”

“How tall are you?” I keep my words low because she’s only inches from my lips.

“Five-nine, and no, I’m not going to change into shorter heels.”

“Why would I ask you to do that?”

She’s done straightening my tie, but her hands are lingering, fingers pretending to work. “Because I’m only a couple inches shorter than you right now.”

“I don’t mind.”

Looking down, I watch those flaming cheeks ignite once again. At this rate, I should’ve warned her not to wear blush at all tonight.

“We should go.” She takes off to the door, grabbing her tiny purse on the way.

“Your jacket,” I remind her.

She turns with attitude, showing off that shiny pink dress. “I’m not taking one. Beauty is pain, and this outfit needs its moment.”

It took the entire drive for Indy to stop shivering thanks to the short walk from my apartment to the town car. I offered her my jacket, but she refused, claiming if she’s going to be photographed on my arm then it’s going to be in this dress. I don’t blame her because goddamn, this dress, but I’m going to come off like an asshole allowing my date to freeze in the Chicago evening temperatures.

“You ready?” I ask her as we pull up to the swanky hotel hosting the fall banquet. And though the question is directed at Indy, I’m internally asking myself the same thing.

Besides the favor-date last year, I haven’t been photographed with a woman since I moved to Chicago, and now I’m regretting pulling Indy into this madness. My life is forever on display, and I hate it. Anonymity is rare and I’m about to take hers away.

“Yeah, I think so.” Her words are breathy, fogging the back window as her eyes stay glued to the hoard of photographers right outside.

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