is the sexiest thing ever.
There’s no denying what this is.
This is a date.
A real, honest-to-God, no-debates-about-it date.
“And before you ask, they do have dessert,” he says. “I checked.”
Scratch what I said before about planning being the sexiest thing ever. Because that, right there? That’s the new sexiest thing ever.
He checked for dessert.
For me.
“Why don’t you get ready,” he says, and then he crosses the distance between us and kisses me. Briefly. Then he grins, pinches my ass and says, “Quick like a bunny.”
Okay, he’s not always hard to read.
It takes a lot of willpower not to grab his ass in return and derail this date into locking the bedroom door and having dinner delivered. I want to devour him.
But also, dessert was mentioned.
I skip up to my room and find another two dozen hot pink roses sitting in a vase on my dresser. Even Gary looks impressed.
Fine, he’s sleeping and ignoring me, but deep down I know he’s impressed.
I shower, the feeling in my stomach similar to the feeling you have before the first day of school or the night before a vacation. I moisturize—which is an accomplishment all on its own—and then blow-dry my hair. I usually air-dry because, well, I’m lazy. But an honest-to-goodness date calls for pulling out all the stops.
Then, after putting on clean lingerie, I slip into one of my own creations. It’s a simple silhouette, a flowy caftan minidress that I pieced together using the remains of a destroyed Valentino ballgown. The silk is gorgeous, a print in the same shade of pink as my flowers mixed with mint green and purple. The sleeves end several inches above my wrists and the hemline is just a few inches long enough not to be risqué.
I was going to sell it, but something made me hold onto it. Kismet, maybe.
I do my make-up in light nudes with a rosy pink lip and go heavier on the eyes, with a dramatic liner and generous use of my favorite eyeshadow palette.
I look good.
No, I look incredible.
This is the power of fashion. The power to shift moods. The power of confidence. Because in this dress, I’m not thinking about how I don’t deserve Warren. Or maybe only a small part of me that is.
But the rest of me?
The rest of me’s a confident vixen, ready for date night.
We go to an upscale steakhouse for dinner, the kind of place fancy enough that it simply uses its address as its restaurant name, 677 Prime. The décor is whimsical and romantic and the menu is even better.
I’ve already peeked at the dessert menu and, well, any fancy restaurant that has a bag of warm donut holes on its dessert menu is a winner in my book.
But first we order appetizers—a wedge salad for Warren and a strawberry goat’s cheese salad for me. Because fancy. For our entrées Warren orders a NY Strip and I opt for the sea bass, served with some kind of chili lime sauce that is so heavenly I want to lick the plate. I don’t, but it’s a close call. Mostly because I’m distracted by the most incredible mashed potatoes I’ve ever put in my mouth. They don’t even call them mashed potatoes. They refer to them as ‘triple butter potato puree.’ All I know is I nearly ask the waiter to marry me.
And then there’s the aforementioned donut holes. Tossed in cinnamon and served with dipping sauces. Chocolate, caramel and, because this restaurant is not playing, raspberry.
I’ve died and gone to heaven.
That’s right. These donut holes are like a divine home run.
I’m on my third donut hole when Warren laughs, and I tear my eyes away from my dipping sauces long enough to look at him.
“What?” I ask, trying to swallow so that I don’t have a mouthful of cinnamon-sugared donut when I ask the question.
“Just appreciating your enthusiasm.”
“Well, I’m appreciating that you ordered the chocolate cake and haven’t taken a single bite of it.”
Obviously that’s my take-home dessert and Warren just got sexier. Like how is he even real?
“I love your confidence and sense of self,” he says and I’m tempted to look over my shoulder. Confident? Me? “You’ve got gumption.”
“Yeah, well…” I play with the rim of my water glass, a bit uncomfortable with the praise. “I don’t know if Gary’s therapist would agree with you.”
He laughs, his eyes sparkling. “You mean the pet psychic?”
“Yeah.”
“Please, elaborate,” he requests, leaning in as if he’s actually interested in the details.
“She thinks I’m indecisive,” I say with