Page 21 of David's Proposal

‘Tomorrow before the wedding rehearsal, maybe?’

I was sweating profusely at that point.

I’m not a good player. I’ve never been one. And it felt like I was playing with him.

But I couldn’t be entirely truthful, either. Wagging my tail at him and all that? Telling him he made my day?

No way.

Confessing that a part of me had been convinced he had forgotten about me or that his schedule hadn’t allowed him to meet me this evening?

Those weren’t real options.

Whatever I tried to say in my replies felt phony.

It’s been a few days since we met last time, and we haven’t communicated since, so anything is possible.

It’s not like we are following a script or are committed to each other.

He came up with the idea of meeting before the wedding rehearsal, but people change their minds all the time.

I was happy he had followed through, but I couldn’t get a feel of him. I don’t know him that well.

So I ended up not answering but getting ready.

Keeping things interesting by not confirming our meeting.

Playing it cool.

That was so not like me, but I thought it was fitting. We’re two adults doing naughty things.

Plus, I wanted to see what he would do.

He didn’t send another message.

And here I am now.

Not only did I go back and forth with the idea of sending a reply, but I also spent an hour in the bathroom, doing my hair and shaving my legs and armpits like I was participating in an artistic swimming competition.

I’m smooth like a peach in all the sensitive places, and my hair looks like a fire has broken out over my back and shoulders.

I’ve never managed to give it so much volume.

The problem is, it’s eight fifteen, and I’m in the closet, wrapped in my bathrobe, red lipstick on, nothing underneath.

What in the hell am I supposed to wear?

I wish I could leaf through Rain’s book, aka Owned by L. Carter. She had a knack for detailed descriptions.

But even so, my wardrobe doesn’t offer much variety.

My eyes move over my everyday clothes and stall on a few dresses.

Nothing is sexy enough.

Nothing.

Oh, my… The clock is ticking, and my palms are lined with sweat as I check every piece of clothing I have in my closet.

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