Page 27 of The One I Need
“Fine,” I groan, hating that I’m going to have to throw my accomplices under the bus. “At first just Hazel. Then I got Jules in on it after the first day.”
“Traitors,” she grumbles. “I’ll deal with them later.”
“Don’t be too hard on them,” I plead. “They were just trying to help a guy out.”
“Fair enough,” she says. “Now, this last one isn’t a question, but I need you to make me a promise.”
At this point I’ll promise her just about anything.
“You name it.”
“Promise me that you know that just because I’m saying yes, it doesn’t mean we’re going to be boyfriend and girlfriend. Promise me that you know this is just two people getting together. No expectations. And without a doubt, this isnota date.”
Usually a smile doesn’t come out when a woman tells a smitten man that their planned meetup is not a date.
But most smitten men aren’t asking out Izzy McCall.
“I promise.”
“Okay then,” she says. “So what happens now? Do we meet somewhere? Are you one of those guys who has to pick the girl up?”
I laugh as I sit back down on the couch. “Absolutely not. I do have a question for you though.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you believe in magic?”
Chapter10
Izzy
“Do you believe in magic?”
Those five words have been rolling around in my head all day since Oliver said them. Mostly because I don’t know what they mean or what they have to do with what’s in store for tonight. I might not know Oliver very well, but based on his gifts and notes this week, that could mean literally anything.
I don’t like surprises. Or not being in the loop. Call it my Type A coming out to play. Call it my gut reaction from past traumas. I’m very uneasy when I don’t know what’s going on. Which is why I’m feeling all sorts of discombobulated as I stand on the sidewalk in downtown Nashville between a honkytonk and a cowboy boot shop.
“What do you have planned, Oliver? And why am I nervous?”
Shit, now I’m talking to myself. This man has me all out of whack. First I agreed to a date and now this. I think I’m officially losing it.
After I said yes to our date—which isn’t a date but I don’t know what else to call it—he informed me that he already had the whole night planned. Once I gave him shit for being cocky I’d say yes, he told me I’d be happy once he revealed his plans. But he wasn’t going to tell me anything except where I was to meet him and that I should dress to impress.
So here I am, in a black cocktail dress and a pair of Louboutins in the middle of Nashville, looking like I’m lost. A bachelorette party stumbles my way, and the bride-to-be nearly trips right in front of me.
Maybe I should take a second to tell the bride that it’s not too late, that she still has time to call it off. Better late than never, if you ask me.
Just as I’m about to approach the clearly drunk bride-to-be, I feel the gentlest touch to my elbow. I can’t see him. Hell, his touch is so light I can barely feel him. But I immediately know it’s Oliver. My body has never burned from the inside by anyone’s touch. That is, not until my night with Oliver.
Fuck, this is bad.
I slowly turn around and I think my heel almost breaks off. That must be it. It’s not because my knees are weak by the mere sight of this man.
I’m trying not to stare at him, but I can’t look away. I think it’s actually impossible.
His long blond hair is styled perfectly in an I-woke-up-like-this tousle. His scruff is that perfect length where it’s not too long but you know you’d feel it if it was against your cheek. Or between your thighs. His light blue button-down shirt fits him perfectly. The top button is undone and his sleeves are rolled, showing off the forearms that have been haunting my dreams. He’s wearing navy blue pants that I can tell are tailored perfectly for him.
Basically, he’s fucking hot. And I’m fucking screwed.
