Page 115 of Smut

“Blake, uh, I’m not sure if this is appropriate or not, but my friend from high school, Sarah Price, she invited me to her engagement party tonight. I just saw her back when, well, months ago, and now she’s with some guy and anyway, I was wondering if you would go with me.”

Oh. Oh. Not at all what I was expecting.

“Of course I will. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” she says quietly. “Maybe it’s weird.”

“Hey, you ask me to do something, I’ll do it.”

Please don’t think something like this is weird.

“Do you still have that suit you wore for the cover?”

“Of course. I’ll wear it.” I pause. “Are you going to wear your hair down?”

“I’m not fucking Rapunzel,” she scoffs. “Anyway, uh…do you mind picking me up? Maybe around seven?”

“You don’t want to do some writing today?”

She lets out a dry laugh. “I’m going to a party where all my old high school friends will be. I need a dress, badly. Something to make them look twice.”

“Now I see why you need me,” I joke.

“Well, that’s part of it.”

“I’m flattered.”

“When aren’t you? See you at seven?”

“See you.”

I hang up and stare at the phone, going back to Rachel’s email and reading it over again.

At seven I’m knocking on Amanda’s door and swatting at a moth that’s taken a liking to my face. I have to admit, I’m actually nervous. I feel like I’m taking a date to the prom or something. My palms keep getting sweaty, and I have to wipe them on my pants.

The door opens a crack and part of Amanda’s face peeks out.

“Hey,” she says, and even though I can only see her eyes, lips, and cheeks, she looks bloody gorgeous. She isn’t even wearing her glasses. “You swatting at invisible elves?”

“There was a moth,” I explain.

“Insects just love you.” She looks me up and down and smiles. “You look pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” Damn. I thought I looked fucking amazing.

“You look more like a business man than you do James Bond.”

“James Bond?” I repeat, shaking my head. “I was going for the Bad Boy Billionaire who’s about to sweep you off to the opera in his Lotus.”

“So Richard Gere in Pretty Woman, then.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell her, putting my hand on the door and pushing it open.

She steps back and does a little swing of her hips, arms out in open display.

“What do you think?” she asks hopefully.

What do I think? She looks like the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her dress is simple, a golden yellow strapless number that sweeps the floor, but it pushes up her breasts and makes her curves stand out while her skin absolutely glows against the color. Despite her Rapunzel comment, she’s worn her hair down in loose waves that spill over her shoulders.

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