Page 104 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

I carefully swipe it through the stubborn lashes, willing them to cooperate before I accidently smudge something. One wrong move and I’ll have to start over, and at this rate, I might combust if I redo my makeup a third time.

Satisfied, I lean back, examining my handiwork. Better. Not perfect, but good enough to make it look like I didn’t spend an hour agonizing over every tiny detail.

“Good as it’s gonna get,” I reason with myself, going to the closet.

This is dinner, not the Oscars, but Gio was right; as soon as he said the words ‘date’ and ‘heels’ I immediately began mentally scanning my closet for a dress. And shoes.

The dress I landed on is bodycon—sheer in all the right places, and ombre—from deep brown at the hem fading to a lighter beige shade up top. It screams:picture me naked!

It’s the kind of dress that demands flesh tone bra and underwear, which I had to dig through a drawer of mismatched options to find.

As a sweatpants on the weekend girlie, tight dresses and high heels aren’t normally my thing. Give me oversized hoodies and sneakers any day of the week, and I amthriving. But if I’m going to commit to this, I might as well commit all the way.

Go big or stay home.

There’s something about the tight fit that makes me stand a little taller (mostly because now that I’m dressed, I can barelybreathe), and the sheer panels leavejust enoughto the imagination to make me wonder if I’m actually dressed too sexy.

It’s a fine line between looking good and looking like I tried way too hard, and I’m teetering dangerously close to the latter.

I glance down at my shoes. Beige, strappy, and clearly designed by someone who has never had to wear them for longer than ten minutes.

A man, probably.

I’d wobbled slipping them on, already envisioning my future as a meme: “Baddie tries to look cute, twists ankle before appetizer.”

I glance at the clock on my phone. Five minutes.

Time to grab my clutch and fill it with all the things I have in my other bag: gloss, ID, credit card, keys.

“Dinner’s going to be fine.” Gio, who’s been lying at my feet napping like the unbothered king he is, cracks one eye open at the sound of my voice. “I’m going to be fine. Worst-case scenario, he sucks at conversation and I can stuff myself with breadsticks.”

Love myself some carbs.

Yum.

I take one last look in the full-length mirror that is my closet door. Turn this way and that way so I can give my ass a glance. The dress, the heels, the makeup—I look pretty freaking gorgeous, if I do say so myself.

Damn, girl.

I hop in the Uber that just pulled up and we drive the several blocks to the restaurant; Gio—Human Gio, not the dog—offered to come pick me up, but I politely declined. Not because I don’t trust him, but because the idea of him showing up on my doorstep feels… too soon.

Also, there’s the matter of Little Gio.

My loyal, judgmental dog is home, probably snoozing in the exact spot where I left him. Introducing Human Gio to hisnamesake tonight feels like it’s going to be awhole thingand that can wait.

I giggle at the thought as I stare out the window at the city lights of Houston passing me by—everything feels a little brighter tonight.

A little more alive.

The ride is only a few, short minutes and my brain is already buzzing with what-ifs. What if I trip on the way in? What if I spill something. What if I have to fart?

He’s standing outside the restaurant when we pull up, looking so unbelievably handsome it should honestly be illegal. Like,dang.The kind of handsome that makes you rethink allll the questionable guys you’ve dated before and wonder why youeversettled for less.

My panties get wet by about 20%.

Gio is leaning casually against the railing for the building, his hands tucked into his pockets, shirt snug enough to hint at the body that spends more time at the gym than I spend watching Netflix. Which is a ton.

His hair looks effortlessly perfect, like he woke up five minutes ago and decided to make the rest of us mere mortals feel inferior.