Page 89 of How to Prevent a Fumble

Her wearing nothing would be just for me.

“I—”

“I knew it, one minute, I’m going to throw on something else,” she says, closing the door.

But I place my arm in the way, preventing it from shutting.

“Briar,” I stop her, my hand on her wrist. “You look gorgeous.”

She stills, her eyes moving to where our skin meets before slowly drifting up my arm and to my face.

“You have to say that,” she whispers quietly, her eyes dropping to the floor.

Letting go of her arm, I place my finger under her chin, forcing her to look at me. “Do I?”

“What?”

“Do I have to say that?”

“I—”

“Briar, I can go back and read our agreement again, but I don’t remember ever seeing a section that says I have to compliment you. Or that I have to tell you you’re beautiful.”

Her brows dip as she bites the inside of her cheek, her hands busying themselves by playing with her sleeve.

“Then why are you?”

I chuckle. “Because I’m trying this new thing where I tell the truth, Briar.”

Her cheeks grow pink as she studies me, and not for the first time, I feel like she’s seeing right through me. Like she knows exactly who I am, down to my very bones.

And not for the first time, I realize that it doesn’t scare me.

In fact, I want her to know more.

“Okay,” she whispers, bending down to grab her boots by the door.

Crossing her arms over herself, she pauses, grabbing a large knit cardigan from her bed and tugging it on. With one more glance in the mirror, she follows me down the hall and to the family room, where she tugs on her boots.

With one last sigh, she sends me a small smile. “I’m ready.”

The restaurant’s lights are down low as soft jazz music plays in the background. While Briar may have been nervous before, she hasn’t shown any sign of it since.

“What are you getting?”

“Probably a steak. What about you?”

She lets out a large breath, as if judging how she feels. “Probably pasta. Yeah. Pasta sounds really good.”

When the waiter comes, she asks for another amaretto sour.

“Is that the only thing you drink?” I ask her with a smirk.

“Nope,” she replies simply, popping the ‘p’ as she takes a sip of her water. “It’s just my favorite. It’s like an old lady’s drink you know? I love the taste and I can have a lot of them without getting plastered.”

The waiter comes back with our drinks, and the second she sees it, Briar frowns.

I’m not quite sure what’s happening, but I sit back, taking a sip of my bourbon and waiting to see what happens next.

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