Page 26 of Getting Over You

He chuckles. “No, we can’t start small. It’s better if you jump in headfirst. Guys like that. Confidence is hot, you know?”

“Maybe to you,” I say, taking a sip from the cocktail I’m holding.

He takes the cup from me, taking a long gulp. He winces. “God, that shit’s terrible, princess. How can you drink that?”

I laugh. “Not all of us enjoy the taste of beer.”

“For a girl like you,” he explains, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s better to rip off the Band-aid.”

“You don’t know what I need,” I say, indignant. “And what does that mean, huh?Girls like me?”

“You’re all… pink, sparkles, and frills, princess. But also a scaredy cat.”

“Hey,” I say, a pout starting. “A scaredy cat? Really?”

Cade laughs. “Totally not my type, you know? I’m not a frill guy.”

I shove him playfully. “I believe you. I do. The guy who sleeps with everyone won’t try to get with me, I’m sure of it.” Just saying it out loud disappoints me a little.

“And since you know I won’t be your fall back,” Cade says, his gaze burning the side of my head as I don’t meet his eyes, “you need to find someone else, right?”

He does have a point.

“Fine,” I say. “But you’re buying me a shot the minute we get to the bar.”

Chapter ten

“This?” Gigi asks about a black, skin-tight dress that perfectly accentuates the curve of her hips.

“This one?”she asks about a red long-sleeve, still skin tight but with—disappointingly—no cleavage.

“Okay,” she calls as I wait, eyes squeezed shut, on her bed. “You can open your eyes. I like this one, but it’s not—”

“I don’t think that’s it,” I tell her quietly, shaking my head as I look over the magenta dress she’s now got on. It’s short, with a v-neck that dips almost to her belly button. The back, I notice as she twirls, is just as deliciously low, stopping right at her tailbone.

“Yeah, that’s…” Too hot. Too much. Too good. So good that if she wears that, she won’t be coming home with me tonight.

“Black,” I tell her, my voice thick. “The black one is good.”

“You’re just saying that because of the cleavage,” she says.

I shrug. “Do you want my help or not?”

“I’ll wear the black one,” she decides, turning to survey the dress splayed out on her bed. “Yeah. Black is the one, I think.”

“Because I said it was?” I ask. “Or because you want to wear the black one?”

Gigi rolls her eyes, grinning. “Can you leave me to finish getting ready?”

“I don’t know,” I challenge. “Do I have to leave before you take off that dress?”

She gives me a look. “Have I mentioned yet today how thankful I am that I’m not trying to impress you, Cade?”

She may not betrying, but she’s still managing to do it. Gigi in a dress—or any outfit, I’ve realized over the past few days—puts me and my usual T-shirt and ripped jeans to shame. I’m starting to think I should have picked something better to wear out tonight.

I obey, leaving Gigi to her own devices to finish getting ready and making my way down the stairs to her living room.

I’m so excited. Not just to see her in the dress she picked, but to see her in an element I haven’t yet. People act differently, sometimes more themselves, after a drink or two.

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