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“Keep looking at me like that and we’ll end up back in bed and never make it out for our date.”

Our date. Shit. I nearly forgot that it’s tonight.

He reaches down and tips my chin up to kiss me, a dizzying, drug-inducing kiss.

When he pulls back I’ve forgotten where I am for a second.

“I’ll be back at six,” he says.

“You’re still not going to tell me where we’re going.”

“No.”

“Not even a hint.”

“Not even a hint.” He opens the door. “Six o’clock, doll. Be ready.”

I’ve been standing in front of my closet for twenty minutes.

There’s a pink dress hanging on the hook on the back of my bathroom door where I put it this morning after Cole left. I was fully decided on it but started second-guessing myself about an hour ago. It’s too fancy. Too formfitting. Just too much.

Despite trying to talk myself out of it, I can hear Layla’s voice in my head. Telling me it’s perfect and that it hugs my curves like it was made for me and it’s not too fancy because it’s a simple satin material, and that my boobs look great in it.

Shutting the closet door, I straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath. I’m wearing the pink dress. I can do it. And I think Cole would like it, especially the boob part.

I pad to the bathroom and start on my makeup, keeping it simple. I’ve learned that simple looks best on me. Enough to feel special and glamorous but still like myself. A light coverage foundation, blush that mirrors my natural one, a few swipes of mascara, and a tinted balm that looks like my lips, but better.

Duchess appears in the bathroom doorway and sits down, eyes scrutinizing me.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell her.

She blinks once, unimpressed.

“I’ll give you treats before I leave.”

She likely doesn’t understand me ninety-nine percent of the time but she knows the wordtreats, because my answer pleases her enough to saunter away and curl up on the couch.

I look at myself in the mirror. At my slightly too-bright eyes and the flush already sitting high on my cheeks, neither of which has anything to do with the makeup I just applied.

Something about this feels different than any other time we’ve made plans. I know it’s our first date date, but we’ve done so much more than dates—it shouldn’t be as nerve-racking, and yet I feel a bit like a wreck.

Since Layla is the only one who knows the truth, I fire off a text to her.

Do you think it’s a real date or fake date? Like, it’s for show, right?

LAYLA

It’s a real date. Get your head out of your ass.

But do you think HE thinks it’s a real date??

LAYLA

YES!!!

But how do you know?

Dots appear and disappear and then she’s calling me.