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Mason
If Chelsea isthe social butterfly, I’m like the social roly-poly—hiding under rocks and curling up in a protective ball when I see people.
Still. For Chelsea, I’ll do it. I didn’t even hesitate when she mentioned the party.
Even if I spent my afternoon at the office crunching numbers while dark dread and happy anticipation warred for dominance in my chest. I’m still not sure which won.
That is, not until Chelsea walks out of her room in the kind of dress that wouldn’t just stop traffic but knock out a power grid and shut down a whole city center.
Only my years of practice hiding my feelings keep my jaw from coming unhinged and hitting the floor.
And now I am one hundred percent sure I want to go to this party.
I’d go anywhere with Chelsea in this dress—Black Friday shopping right as stores open or to the dentist for a surprise visit or even the DMV to renew my driver’s license.
Sign me up.
“What’s wrong?” Chelsea asks, her eyes going wide. She glances down at the short, silver dress. “Is it too much? I got it on clearance and—”
“No.”
I might be able to control my facial expressions but my voice comes out like a guttural rumble. Low and possessive as I step closer and reach out, settling a tentative hand at her waist.
The material is slick under my fingertips, almost like I’m touching a cool, malleable metal instead of fabric. And that’s how it looks—like Chelsea is draped in liquid silver. It caresses her every curve, shimmering in the light with even the smallest movement.
“It’s okay?” she asks.
I want to say more but find I can only nod.
“We’re supposed to dress like a Christmas song. I’m ‘Silver Bells.’ See?”
Chelsea extends one bare leg I try not to stare at as she wiggles her foot. A tiny anklet with bell charms chimes softly. Then she shakes her head, and her bell earrings jangle, along with a few other bells tied into her updo with silver ribbons.
“You’re the most beautiful bell I’ve ever seen,” I tell her, feeling as dumb as I sound.
But Chelsea laughs, her various bells tinkling as she does. “I bet you say that toallthe bells. And you!” Chelsea smooths a hand down my lapels. “You look simply dashing.”
“Thank you. But don’t I need a costume?”
“I’m already forcing you to come to a party when you hate parties. No way am I making you dress up. It’s optional,” she says with a shrug.
“You’re not forcing me to go. And I’ll dress up. Though I’m not sure how we could find a costume so last minute.”
Chelsea’s sudden, wide grin terrifies me.
“Wait here.” She ducks back into her room only to pop her head around the door a moment later. “Is it okay if we have to dry clean your suit after? I’ll pay for it.”
“Uh …”
“Great!”
She slams the door and I wait, comforting myself with the thought that whatever she’s going to make me wear, at least I’ll be beside her all night.
* * *
It could be worse. That’s what I told myself while letting Chelsea spray my suit with a can of that white flocking spray. Yes—the fake snow meant to decorate trees or bushes or other things which do not ever includepeople.
“Your suit might not even need dry cleaning,” Chelsea tells me as I pull up to the valet parking line at the hotel.
