me.” I point to one that has a heart-shaped neckline.
“That’s hella sexy.” She quirks an eyebrow. “And I bet looking that sexy will make you feel hella sexy. So how exactly are you going to answer the door like that and not want to make hot fireman babies with him?”
“It’s just practice,” I insist, since I need the reminder. “All we’re doing is practice.”
She hums, seemingly unconvinced. “You know what they say about practice.”
“Practice makes perfect?”
“No. They say practicing answering the door in a sexy apron leads to . . .” She mimes a drumroll. “Sex.”
“I don’t think that’s a saying.”
“But it should be. Especially in your case.” A note of warning sounds in her tone.
“It’ll be fine. We’re committed to friendship first,” I say, trying to stay strong.
But inside, I wonder briefly if she’s right. Each day I do want more and more with Gabe. Every time I see him, the longing grows more intense, the desire stronger. But our friendship matters too much to risk simply for dumb, pesky hormones.
I want to believe it’s merely hormones at play.
Trouble is, I can’t quite buy that line of reasoning anymore. Try as I might, when my logical brain feeds that to me, my heart seems to stick out its tongue at my head then laugh.
Because my heart, my God, it somersaults when he’s near me. It does that shimmy shimmy bang bang, even when I think of him and who he is as a man. The way he takes care of his pops, of the owl, his friends, and all the people he doesn’t know—the strangers he helps every day. How he gives his mom books and makes time for dinner with his parents. They say you can learn all you need to know about a man from how he treats his mom, and Gabe treats Mama Harrison with love, respect, and devotion.
All the chambers in my heart are hammering right now.
And I need to be careful because today is about aprons and research and fantasies. It’s not about silly dreams that can’t come true.
Dreams I don’t entirely understand.
I shove them aside, kicking them to a compartment in the back of my mind.
“Ooh! This one!” Vanessa thrusts a black apron in my direction. The little skirt is covered in tiny white dots, and the neckline sports a soft fuchsia bow. “It’s hot—covers the boobs, and a little bit of leg—and it’s so very you.” She presses it against me. “You’re going to look delectable.”
I turn to the mirror, loving what I see. “It is indeed hella sexy.”
She squeezes my shoulder. “Also, listen. Maybe you should consider whether there’s something more happening between the two of you. Don’t you think?”
“He’s not into me like that.”
She shoots me a steely stare. “But are you? Are you like that? Are you liking this pretend thing?”
So much.
I like it so much I can’t jam all these feelings inside me. They’re bursting, jostling to break free. I sweep my gaze side to side, then whisper, “Yesterday, he pinned my arms above my head in an elevator. Pressed his body against mine. Bit my neck.”
She fans her face. “I’m getting hot just thinking about it. How was it?”
“One of the most intense things I’ve ever experienced. The other night I practiced dirty talk on the phone with him.”
“And?”
I fan my face this time.
“Sounds like the line between practice and performance is getting thinner.”
I draw a deep breath. “I know.”
“So you’re doing this, then? The whole apron thing?”
The idea still ignites me. “Yes.”
She exhales deeply, pushing all the air in the world from her lungs. “You’re a brave and bold woman.” She snags the apron from me and marches to the counter. “This one’s on me.”
A few minutes later, we meet Perri for lunch at a nearby diner. Over iced tea and salads, Vanessa fills her in on my apron purchase, and I repeat the elevator story.
I repeat it because . . . it feels good to say it. Because I like sharing it with them. Most of all, I love the way I relive it with a fresh rush of sensations over my skin. A brand-new wave of tingles. It’s like I’m having the moment again and again. And the moment feels good in so many ways—heart, mind, and body.
Perri reaches for her handcuffs and dangles them before me. “Here. Take these tonight. You’ll need them.”
A blush creeps across my cheeks. “I don’t think I’m ready for cuffs yet.”
She laughs. “They’re not for you. You better