I was to become. I wasn’t going to be poor the rest of my life, that was for sure. But I didn’t want to become the Michaelsons. “Well?”
“You look great,” Reagan squealed, hopping up from my futon and running over. She smoothed the Kate Spade wrap dress down my hips. “Jesus, it fits you better than it does me.”
I rolled my eyes. “I highly doubt that.”
She stepped back, examining me. “No, really, it does. Look at yourself. My boobs nearly bust out of it, but you make it look classy. Sophisticated.”
I sighed, looking again to the mirror. “What do I do with my hair?”
“Sit,” Reagan commanded, pointing to the floor, and I did as she said. She twisted my hair into a low bun, pulling out several wisps to frame my bangs and jaw. “There…demure, but sexy.”
“Tate likes it when I wear my hair down.”
She rolled her eyes, flipping her own fire-engine red hair over a shoulder. “Every guy feels that way. Until they see something new. Trust me. This sophisticated look? He’ll love it.”
Reagan rummaged through her duffle bag and pulled out a pair or low-heeled Jimmy Choos. “Here…these match the dress perfectly.”
I took the shoe, turning it over in my hands. “I can’t wear these. They cost you more than this damn apartment.” Okay, not really…but almost.
“You can wear them, and you will wear them. Besides, they cost my dad, not me. What’s the point in having a best friend if we can’t raid each other’s closets?”
I arched a brow, crossing my arms. “Oh? You want to raid my closet, do you? What exactly would you like to borrow? Perhaps this vintage T-shirt featuring our favorite Care Bear? Or would you rather borrow these Gap jeans which I bought, gasp, off the rack.”
“All right, all right. You don’t need to be a bitch about it. Just put on the damn shoes.” Reagan laughed. “Besides, once you’re a high powered business woman and I’m a starving actress, I plan to raid your closet weekly for auditions.” She grinned and lifted a pillow from my bed. “If you weren’t already done up to the nines and about to meet your boyfriend’s governor father, I swear I’d pummel you with this pillow.”
“You could try.” I smiled at her in the mirror while slipping my pearl earrings in. “But we both know I’m the reigning pillow fight champion.”
She burst out in a fit of giggles, clenching the pillow as though she were really debating going all girl-slumber-party on my ass, when a knock at the door quieted us. “Oh my God, they’re here,” she whispered.
I grabbed my purse, rushing for the door. “You’ll let yourself out?”
She nodded, shutting herself in my bedroom and hiding while I answered the door. A very dapper Tate stood on the other side, and a grin stretched across his cheeks as his gaze swept my body from the tips of Reagan’s Jimmy Choos to the top of my French-twisted head. His smile was just the breath of fresh air that I needed, and he tugged me close, brushing his lips along mine.
“Wow. You look—wow,” he said.
I smoothed the sides of my bun, and as I stepped forward, my heel caught on the carpet, and I stumbled into his shoulder. Jesus. Some things didn’t change.
Tate chuckled and brushed his hand across my hip. “They just got here. They’re waiting up in my apartment.” He pushed the button for the elevator, flashing me a smile and squeezing my hip with his free hand.
“Tate, c’mon. Stop.” But despite my protest, I smiled.
“Stop what?” he asked, his voice a raspy shell of what it usually was.
“Stop looking at me like I’m what’s for breakfast.”
“Mmm,” he sighed, tugging me against his body once more. The elevator kicked into gear as he smoothed his lips along my neck and collarbone. “I wish.”
Gripping my hips, he pulled me into his already bulging erection, and I giggled into his shoulder. “Are you ever not in the mood, Tate?”
“Not around you.”
The elevator bounced to a stop, and we quickly parted, jumping to opposite sides. I smoothed my dress, and Tate adjusted his erection before taking my hand.
As we stepped into Tate’s foyer, the door to the kitchen was wide open. The first thing I saw was a splash of hot pink. No…fuchsia. His mother was tall. Really tall. Standing at his kitchen counter, she must have been five eleven, at least. And in her pink dress, paired with a black cashmere cardigan and matching heels that