Page 99 of The Difference Between

Damn her.

Twenty-Seven

The knock at the door rattles through the house as I finish applying the deep red stain on my lips at the bathroom mirror. Tonight’s color is called Regret.

It’s directed at Gavin.

“I’ll be right there,” I shout.

Since I have no doubt Gavin will look like a stray dog in a white T-shirt and Fontain doesn’t have anything that would be considered upscale, I chose something casual.

Ish.

Skinny black jeans, partially sheer red lace shirt, and a black lace bra.

And the highest Louboutins I own.

Fine, I’m not casual. I look sexy as hell because I like watching Gavin squirm.

More importantly, me looking like this and him looking like him will be a good reminder of every difference between us and why this date will be the only date we ever go on. I’d be remiss not to keep him grounded in reality.

Or, maybe, I want to see the look of pain on his face when he tries to kiss me again and I shoot him down.

I rake a hand through my hair, the longest of the dark strands grazing my shoulders as they fall back into place. My eyes are framed by thick, inky lashes and shades of gold on my eyelids. I haven’t looked this hot since I’ve been in Fontain. Gavin might actually cry.

Mom meets me in the foyer with a dish towel in her hands and smiles, smug and like she never had brain surgery.

“Shut up,” I snap as I pull the door open.

Gavin is standing on the porch, familiar broad shoulders, bright eyes, and—hell the fuck no. A sound—something between a grunt and a death rattle—slips out of me. My stomach drops to the floor, and I slam the door in his face.

“Reese Conway!” Mom gasps, elbowing me aside. “What is wrong with you?”

“Did you see him?” I demand. “I’m not going anywhere with that man.”

She makes her angry mom face. “You most certainly will.” She reopens the door and sighs before giving Gavin a sweet smile. “Reese left her manners in Chicago, Gav. C’mon in. And don’t you look nice.”

As Gavin steps in the house and takes up every square inch, nice is the understatement of the century. He’s ditched the T-shirt, the hat . . . and about five inches of hair off his head, including his beard.

If it was just his new beautiful face I was dealing with, maybe I wouldn’t be lightheaded.

But it’s the fact he exchanged his everyday clothes for a suit—a fitted, slim-cut, designer suit—and is holding the biggest bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen a man hold. Mostly because I’ve never seen a man hold flowers. Every bouquet I’ve received in my adult life was in a vase on my desk, signed from the firm after I closed a big deal.

“Iris,” he says with a slight drawl before turning a smolder on me. “Miss Reese.” His eyes take their sweet-ass time working their way down the length of me. “You look nice.”

It’s criminal that beneath all that atrocious facial hair was a face made to be sat on.

“Wish I could say the same.” This sexy bastard won’t beat me at my own game. I snatch my purse off a hook. “The suit is a bit much.” My eyes drop to the flowers. “You salvage those from a weed patch at work today?”

My mom makes an annoyed sound, but Gavin’s eyes dance. “I couldn’t rose-ist.”

Mom finds this hilarious, and I attempt to murder her with my glare.

“This isn’t a real date,” I remind them both. “This is me fulfilling an obligation.”

“Good thing,” Gavin says, smiling enough his dimples clearly carve into his cheeks. “Because these are for Iris.”

Sure enough, my mom’s name is written on the card in the middle of the tree-sized bouquet.