Page 72 of Only in Your Dreams

I forgot how much fun it is to shop for myself, how utterly flattering the lighting in dressing rooms can be, how you’re suddenly imagining all the places you’d go wearing your new clothes. But then Summer threw a pair of cut-off denim shorts into my pile of clothes, and…

They’re ridiculous.

Cut so short, the inside of the front pockets peek out from under the rough edge of denim. I’m practically wearing denim panties. I study myself in the mirror, turning around to get a look at the back.

They do my legs justice, I’ll give them that. I feel tall and leggy in a way I absolutely am not. And they really do something spectacular to my ass, if I let myself get a little conceited.

Connor would have hated them. It’s a tick in favor of the shorts, really.

I dig my phone out from under the pile of clothes and snap a photo of my reflection. Then stare at it like I expect it to reveal a different view of myself closer to the version I’m more accustomed to. Modest and prim, the way Connor would dress me. But it doesn’t.

I feel… sexy. Strangely confident.

On a total whim I’ll hate myself for in a minute, I open up a text thread and send the photo before I can think better of it.

MELODY:Is this too cliché of a rebound outfit?

The shorts are barely down my thighs before my phone chimes. I open the text to see Zac has replied with a photo of Brooks, who looks mid-angry shout with his arms thrown out, face contorted.

Why the hell would he send me a picture of Brooks?

I zoom in, confused, only to notice that the front of his white t-shirt is splattered with brown droplets. Before I can make sense of it, Zac’s name flashes across my screen.

“Whatever happened to a simpleyou look great?” I say, picking up the call. “I’d even have settled for a respectfultake that off. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“I just sent you the biggest compliment I could have paid you, Clover,” Zac says, and in the background I hear the sound of a whistle going off. He must be running a practice. “I made the mistake of opening that picture with a sip of coffee in my mouth. Spat it out so hard Brooks won’t even look at me.”

I stifle a laugh, bending to remove the shorts. “I’m sorry. That was probably incredibly inappropriate to send you at work. At all, really.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just apologize for giving me the best gift I’ve received in years. You are so fucking hot. I’m getting this picture blown-up and framed at the first opportunity,” Zac says. I can hear him moving, the sounds of activity on the field dimming as he goes. “How’s shopping?”

I hold the phone between my ear and shoulder, freeing my hand to take the green dress off its hanger. “How’d you know I went shopping?”

“You just sent me a picture of yourself in a changing room.”

“Right. Dumb question.” I shimmy into the dress, letting the fabric stretch over me. “It’s going great, actually. I found some really good stuff.”

“I hope to God that means you’re buying the shorts.”

“They’re in themaybepile. Hold on a sec.”

I put the phone down long enough to twist around and zip the dress. It’s skin tight, cutting off mid-thigh. Even more absurd than the shorts. I snap another picture of myself and fire it off, ignoring the near-instant hit of embarrassment that causes a rush of heat to my cheeks.

What the hell are you doing, you sad, desperate—

“Fucking hell,” I hear Zac mumble. He’s not speaking into the phone. It must have picked up his voice as he looks at the photo. “Fucking killing me.”

Even from afar, I hear his words come out thick, loaded as hell, and I watch in the mirror as goose bumps erupt over my skin. I drag my fingers across the slippery fabric covering my stomach, feeling so heated it’s like he’s wedged in this tiny dressing room with me, fucking me with his eyes.

“What do you think?” I ask, when he still hasn’t said anything.

He clears his throat, and it sounds like he has the phone to his ear again. “You first. Do you like it?”

I stare at my reflection, running a hand up and down the fabric. The dress looks like it’s been painted on.

“I do, I think,” I say, leaning against the wall of the dressing room. “Connor never would have gone for it. God, I feel like I’m fourteen again, sneaking racy outfits into my backpack behind my mom’s back so that I could change on the bus ride to school.”

“I remember that. A bunch of you girls did it,” he says with a smile in his voice. “You’d make me shield you on the bus so that no one could see what you were doing. Parker did the same for Summer.”

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