Page 48 of Lassoed Love

The nerve of this guy. Is he serious? What did I just sign up for?

I will most certainly NOT be wearing a dress.

21

Icaved. I’m wearing adress.Pathetic, I know.

All day today, I’ve been a complete mess.Why?It’s not like I haven’t been on dates before. Sure, plenty with Justin, but that doesn’t count, right? He was my ‘boyfriend,’ and those dates were never about what I liked or enjoyed. And don’t even get me started on the date with David recently—I’m not even going to count that one.

Big public displays of affection—kissing, hand-holding, all that jazz—have always given me the ick. But now, thinking about it, maybe it was just because of my ex. I won’t ever know for sure. It’s not like I’m planning to settle down any time soon. I’m content with working my dream job full time. No time for distractions, especially with everything going on now with Dad.

I wonder what he’s doing right now, and my heart sinks at the thought of him alone on the couch, most likely nursing a stubby, just like he used to do, early in the evenings.What if he’s having another episode?No one is therewith him.Argh.

I push aside these thoughts for now, making a mental note to call and check up on him tomorrow morning.

Mentally preparing for what I’m about to walk into, Imogen came over after I’d finished work. My desperate pleas for help resulted in her carrying two dresses on hangers—which I scoffed at, as there’s no way her size 10 dresses would fit my body. She also brought cases of hair styling irons and makeup.

She is NEVER one to turn down a little glam styling sesh. Midge insisted that these dresses were all elastic and extremely comfy. She had made me try on both, and one of them actually ended up looking nice—surprisingly.

“Don’t doubt me, bitch—you’re not fat. You have the most amazing curves. Show them off,”she’d threatened, to which I just rolled my eyes and laughed.

So here I am, wrapped in a short black dress—a tad shorter than my usual preference or the one I wore the other night. Imogen practically strong-armed me into this, claiming it makes my legs look ‘hot’. “Girl, look at those muscly thighs and those calves,” she’d exclaimed. I wasn’t quite convinced, but Imogen is always brutally honest, so I guess that’s something. My confidence has gone up lately, and I can’t pinpoint why or how?

It has a stretchy shirred bodice and a square neckline that Imogen insists accentuates my silhouette, or, as she likes to put it, my “big tits and small waist”—she can be so crude sometimes. But hey, she’s got a point, I guess.

The puff sleeves and flared mini skirt with a ruffle hem add alittle playfulness, and I can't help but marvel at how Imogen's size 10 actually fits me. She’s worked wonders with my curls, and the light makeup she’s applied enhances my features just enough. But despite her skilled hands, Xavier’s mention of my freckles invades my thoughts yet again. Since when has he been so observant? And why does it unsettle me so much?

As Imogen finishes up, packing her things with practised efficiency, she kisses me on the cheek and demands, “All updates, Isla! Don’t keep me waiting!”

At precisely 6 o’clock, Xavier pulls up outside my apartment complex. Nerves kick in, somersaulting in my stomach. I take a few deep breaths, attempting to settle them, but they persist.Get a grip, Isla. You’ll be fine.

As I reach for my small bag on the kitchen counter, the doorbell rings, shattering the silent ambience of my apartment.Here we go.I open the door to find Xavier leaning against the frame, his towering height emphasising my smaller stature. He’s like a giant, easily over six feet. His intense gaze sweeps over me, slowly, before freezing momentarily, moving off the door frame.

“Nah, I changed my mind,” he blurts out.

“What?”What?

“You’re not wearing a dress,” he states matter-of-factly.

“W-what? Why? You’re the one who told me to wear one!” I exclaim.

“Yeah, that was before I’d seen—” he nods toward my body, “you… dressed in that!”

“W-what is wrong with what I’m wearing?”I knew I shouldn’t have worn this dress. I should have just worn—My thoughts are cut off by Xavier’s words.

“Absolutely nothing. It’s… perfect. That’s the problem.” He says it so low, it’s almost a growl. Oh.Oh.

“Unless you want me walking around with a fucking hard on, I suggest you go and change, right now,” he growls.No fucking way.

“What! What is wrong with you? Must you be s-so vulgar?” I stutter, avoiding his gaze. Do not blush.

“Just speaking facts, princess.” He gestures with a nod down to his now clearly evident bulge in his khaki denim shorts.Fuuuck me. Just from that bulge, I can tell the man is packing. Surely that’s not normal.Abort mission.

“This is ridiculous. I am not changing. I did not spend hours getting ready just to change because you can’t control your… y-your—” I gesture toward his crotch, “that.” I feel warmth spreading across my cheeks and wipe my forehead, now feeling all flushed and flustered around this huge brute. The heat is not doing anything to help me at the moment.

“You spent hours getting ready for me, princess? I’m honoured,” he teases, a smirk playing on his lips. I scoff, pushing past him, slamming my door in the process. Why must he rile me up? So muchfor him not making it weird. I am convinced this idiot does NOT know how tolisten. Or is he doing it on purpose?

I can hear him laughing as I walk down the stairs to his car, waiting at the passenger side door.

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