“Absolutely not,” Stella says with the conviction of a woman who won’t back down from her feelings.

  I rest a hand on my hip, irritated. “Are you saying I’m not good enough for Alex unless I slap a bunch of cosmetics on my face?”

  “Please. Of course not. You’re all worked up over this, and I have no idea why.” Stella grabs hold of my chin, turning my face to the left, and then to the right, her scrutinizing gaze making me want to shrink away from her. “I’ll put the eyeliner on and you do the mascara. Deal?”

  My answer is one quick nod, and then she’s bossing me around some more, demanding I close my eyes so she can begin. Her hand is steady as she draws first one line, then another across my each eyelid. When she finishes, she steps away from me and I open my eyes. “There. Done.”

  I turn toward the mirror and check her work, thankful to see the perfect, not too thick, not too thin lines above each eye. Way better than my squiggly, uneven attempts. “Thank you,” I breathe, grabbing my favorite mascara. Why I own three when I only use the one, I don’t know, but that’s how us makeup-obsessed peeps roll.

  Inhaling, I tell myself I can do this. I can apply mascara and not make a mess of it, and lo and behold, I actually do.

  “How do I look?” I tilt my head in Stella’s direction.

  “Your eyes look great.” She smiles. Nods. Gives me the thumbs-up.

  Awesome. “Okay then. I’m ready.” I shake out my hands, then wipe them on my denim-covered thighs.

  “Uhhh, is that what you’re wearing?”

  Stella’s casual tone tells me she’s feeling anything but casual. As in, I don’t think she likes my outfit choice. Glancing down, I inspect my cropped high-waisted jeans with the hole in one knee. God, I seriously love these jeans. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m trying to say that you are looking way too…comfortable for this date.”

  “I don’t think he’s taking me somewhere fancy.” I try to back up to study myself in the mirror, but the bathroom is so tiny, it’s not working.

  I head to my bedroom where I can examine my outfit in the full-length mirror I found at Walmart for $15 that’s propped against my wall. I turn this way and that, checking out my butt—not bad—kicking out one foot to examine my new wedge sandals I’m wearing. “I like my outfit.”

  “You need to wear a dress.” It’s not a suggestion, but a statement. As in, Stella doesn’t want me to argue.

  I turn to look at her. “Won’t I look like I’m trying too hard?”

  “No.” Stella shakes her head slowly. I can hear her dangly earrings clinking with the movement. “Right now you look like you’re not trying hard enough. A dress would be appropriate for tonight’s date.”

  “It’s not a date.” I repeat it so I won’t be disappointed when I find out that it really isn’t a date.

  “Keep telling yourself that,” Stella mutters as she opens up my closet door and starts digging. The hangers go flying by, one after the other, and she’s whispering to herself as she examines each of my dresses.

  I have quite a few. I wear mostly dresses to work, considering I’m constantly meeting with clients and trying my best to look professional. But that’s the problem. All of my dresses are in work mode, and I need a dress that’s more like date mode.

  For my non-date dinner with Alex.

  “Here we go,” Stella says, yanking the dress from my too crowded closet and holding it up for my inspection. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear this.”

  That’s because I only wore it once, then stashed it in the back of my closet so I would never have to see it again. “It gapes too much at the front,” I tell her.

  She smiles, waggling her eyebrows like some sort of perv. “He might like that.”

  “I don’t want to give him a tit shot.” I reach for the dress, but she turns, holding it just out of my reach. “I’m not wearing it.”

  “Why not? It’s so cute! And sexy. Sexy and cute, the perfect combination!”

  Stella’s not wrong. The sheer fabric is a lovely pale pink, with darker pink flowers scattered all over it. The sleeves flutter, as does the hem, and while the fabric is see-through, the dress is fully lined. The deep V-neck is no joke, though, and the dress is a wrap style. Meaning one wrong move, and your boob might fall out.

  Which is exactly what happened to me the last time I went on a blind date six months ago. We’re at a Chinese restaurant, I keep having to lean over so I’m not slurping chow mein noodles and making a mess, when uh oh, I can suddenly feel a breeze on my cleavage. Glancing up, I caught my date ogling my chest—specifically my right breast, which was mostly hanging out of the neckline.

  Thank God I decided to wear a bra that night.

  “Don’t you remember me telling you about that date I went on and my boob was practically resting on my plate?” I ask Stella.

  “In the sweet and sour chicken?” When I nod, she glances down at the dress. “You were wearing this?”

  “Yeah. It was so embarrassing.” I had to go to the bathroom—and it was kind of grungy, like the entire restaurant—and try to fix the dress, but it was uncooperative. I finally cinched the wrap tie so tight around my waist, it cut off most of my circulation, and I couldn’t finish my dinner.

  It was a disastrous blind date, especially since he thought he’d get some action from my accidental flashing. That guy was such a jerk. I don’t even remember his name.

  “We can fix this. Hold on.” Stella tosses the dress on my bed and flees my bedroom, heading for her own. I hear dresser drawers open and shut, a few grumbled curse words, and then she’s back, clutching a silky, lacy cream-colored camisole in her hand. “Wear this underneath it.”

  I take the camisole, examining it. Stella and I have different body types. She’s taller and leaner, with a dancer’s body, while I’m shorter and curvier. “You think it’ll fit?”

  “Give it a shot.” She waves a hand at me, her eyes going wide. “Hurry up. You’re running out of time.”

  I shed my jeans and top, standing in just my underwear while Stella flaps her hands and tells me to speed it up. I slip on the camisole first. It’s tight, and I don’t have big boobs, so I can only imagine how it would fit if I wear bustier. What I mean by curvy is my waist and hips and butt. Up top? I’m pretty average.

  “I can’t wear a bra with this,” I whine.

  Stella rolls her eyes. “You’re not supposed to.”

  “Where did you get this camisole anyway?”

  “From Sarah. It was on clearance at Bliss.” The lingerie store our friend works at. “I think it was made wrong, and that’s why they clearanced them all.”

  “Clearly it was made wrong. Look at it.” I point my index finger at it, shocked yet again at how tightly it stretches across my front.

  “Still looks good on you,” Stella says. “Now put the dress on.”

  Damn, she’s bossy.

  I pull the dress on, twisting the waist tie into a sweet little bow before I turn and fully face Stella. “What do you think?”

  She comes at me with the intensity of a mother prepping her child before prom night. She plucks at my neckline, adjusting its position, then reaches for the camisole and tugs at the lace trim.

  “I feel like we’re having an intimate moment,” I tell her solemnly.

  She shakes her head, but otherwise says nothing. When she’s finished, she slowly backs away from me, her gaze sweeping from the top of my head to the tip of my toes, before she finally smiles her approval. “The camisole totally works.”

  Glancing down, I check my chest, and sure enough, my nipples are hard. A bra would minimize that look for sure. “This isn’t going to work.” I point at my nipples poking against the fabric.

  “It will totally work. You’ll be like Rachel and Monica from Friends.” Those two walked around with stiff nipples for the majority of the series. I always thought it was kind of odd, especially when I was a kid.

  “I feel exposed.”

  “Think of how exposed you’d feel if you didn’t have the camisole.” She’s back in my closet again, digging through my shoes until she finds the ones she wants. “Here you go. I think you’re ready.”

  I don’t bother protesting. I take the nude stiletto sandals from her and slip them on, thankful I know how to walk in heels.

  “Your legs look like they go on foreverrrrrr.” Stella drawls the last word. “Alex Wilder won’t know what hit him.”

  “Nothing’s going to hit him. This isn’t a date.” I open the tiny jewelry box I’ve had since I was a kid and pull out my favorite necklace. It’s a delicate gold chain with a thin crescent moon charm, and the clasp is borderline broken, but I don’t care. I’m taking the risk and wearing it tonight. For luck.

  “Aw, the finishing touch.” Stella is now beaming like a proud mama ready to send her daughter off to prom. And why do I keep making mental prom references? “You look beautiful, Car.”

  I grab my phone and take a mirror selfie, then post it on my IG story without a caption, just a couple of heart GIFs. When I see the time on my phone, my stomach feels like it just bottomed out.

  He’ll be here any second.

  “Is he going to meet you up here?” Stella asks.

  “I told him to text me when he arrives and I’ll meet him outside.”

  She shakes her head. “Not ready for him to see the greatness that is our private sanctuary?”

  “That’s not how we usually do it and you know it.” We’re not big on letting guys see where we live. We’re totally vague when we tell them our apartment is downtown. They can never quite figure out where it’s at, and we like it that way.

  Unless we fall for them and want them to hang out with us all the time. It’s only happened for me once. For Stella, she’s brought a couple of guys to our apartment.

  I take my tiny neutral beige purse that looks like it’s Gucci but isn’t, and shove my phone inside before grabbing my favorite lipstick and slicking it on without using a mirror. I rub my lips together, making a satisfying popping noise, and I’m dropping the lipstick back into my bag when my phone dings.

  It’s Alex.

  I’m here. Parked in front of Sweet Dreams.

  Okay, I sort of told him we lived in an apartment directly above the café/bakery so he knows where it’s at, but for some reason I feel like I can trust Alex better than any of those other guys I’ve dated. Maybe because I’ve known him since I was a kid?

  “He’s here.” I go to Stella and wrap her up in a big hug. “Wish me luck.”

  She pulls away from me, her smile huge. “Have fun on your date,” she singsongs.

  “It’s not a date,” I say for what feels like the fiftieth time. “I’ll probably be home early.”

  “Uh huh.” The doubt in Stella’s voice is clear. She follows me out into the living room. “Wanna make a bet you’ll be doing the walk of shame in the morning?”

  I’m shocked she’d even say it. “I will not,” I say indignantly.

  “We’ll see.” That smug look on her face is super annoying.

  I go to the door, flip her the bird to make her laugh, and dash out before she teases me again.

  As I race down the stairs, I can’t deny the giddiness bubbling inside of me. I’m excited. Nervous. This dinner could mean nothing.

  But then again, it could mean everything.

  Seventeen

  “I hope you weren’t lying when you said you liked seafood.” Alex sends me a concerned look as he maneuvers the car so that we’re headed east.

  “No lie, I love it,” I reassure him. He’d texted me yesterday to confirm the time we’d meet, where and if I liked seafood.

  Lucky for him—and me—I really do love it. I’m curious where he’s taking me. I may work and live in Carmel, but I don’t eat at too many of the restaurants, considering how expensive they are. I’ve gone on a few dates at some of the finer dining establishments in the area, but for the most part, the guys I’ve went out with in the past are more the beer and chicken wings type.

  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

  “Have you been to the Flying Fish?” Alex asks as he turns right on Mission Street. The town is small, we probably could’ve walked since the restaurant is just up the street, and maybe we should’ve, considering how parking is on short supply.

  But he finds parking with ease—almost unheard of on a Friday night in Carmel-by-the-Sea—and slips the sleek black BMW he’s driving into the spot with expertise.

  Me? I can’t parallel park for crap.

  “I haven’t been there before, though I’ve heard of it.” Nothing but good things, too. Nerves had combatted my appetite for the most part, so I really hope it comes back soon, especially for this place.

  Alex opens the door for me like a gentleman and I climb out of the car as un-awkwardly as possible, praying I don’t flash him my panties or twist my ankle when my foot hits the curb. Luckily, neither thing happens, and as we walk to the restaurant, the cool spring breeze washes over my skin, making me shiver.

  “It’s a gorgeous night,” he tells me, his gaze appreciative when it lands on me. “And you look gorgeous in that dress.”

  “Thank you.” My cheeks feel warm and I want to roll my eyes at myself. I’m blushing like an innocent schoolgirl.

  He’s flirting with me, right? That compliment felt like flirting.

  We enter the restaurant a few moments later, Alex holding the door for me yet again. It’s quiet and dark, the lighting dim, the wood walls giving the room a warm glow. The hostess leads us to our table, a redwood booth, and I slide onto the bench opposite Alex as the hostess rattles off the evening’s specials before handing us our menus.

  “I’ve heard you have to get a reservation here at least a month in advance,” I say as I open my menu.

  “Not if you know the owner,” Alex tells me with a quick wink, before he focuses on his menu.

  Wow. I’m sort of used to dealing with rich people, since many of the clients at Noteworthy are wealthy. But what’s that like, to just call up the owner and say I want a table Friday night? “Are you saying it pays to have connections?” I tease.

  He lifts his head, his mouth stretched into a smile. “Definitely.”

  I’m a little breathless as I keep watching him. He is so incredibly handsome, and I am so glad I followed Stella’s advice and wore a dress. He’s in a suit. I’m guessing he came to pick me up straight from work. Black jacket and pants, crisp white shirt, and a black-and-white subtly striped tie. He looks like he walked straight out of a men’s fashion magazine.

  “What do you recommend?” I ask as I peruse the options, feeling a little overwhelmed. Some of it sounds absolutely amazing, and my appetite is slowly making a comeback, though I’m still nervous. A little jittery even. The prices on this menu are a smidge high and though I can guarantee I’m not the one paying for my dinner tonight, I still feel like I should walk into this scenario like an independent woman who can take care of her own damn self.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have an appetizer.

  “The California Tower is a great appetizer,” he says, his gaze intent as he skims the menu. It’s like he can mind read. “Anything tempura here is delicious too.”

  “Hmmm.” Yeah, I’m definitely hungry, but I’m considering jumping right into the main entrees. “I think I might have the grilled chicken.”

  The menu description makes it sound delicious, but that’s kind of boring considering all of the seafood choices. It’s one of the cheaper items on the menu, though, and most likely the one that will fill me up the best. Nothing worse than eating a fabulous meal only to wind up hungry two hours later.

  “Are you sure?” He sounds skeptical. “I’ll order seafood for our appetizers then. We can share.”

  He ends up ordering a bottle of wine, the California Tower and tempura, plus pan-fried oysters. And that’s just to start.

  Aren’t oysters an aphrodisiac? I’m pretty sure they are…

  Within minutes the server brings us a chilled bottle of Chardonnay and we go through the entire process of tasting the wine before offering our approval. Alex goes first because I have no idea what I’m doing. I mean, I love wine. I drink it a lot. But I’m not the sniff-and-sip type of wine drinker.

  Alex clearly is, and he gives his approval quickly. I sniff and sample as well, mimicking everything he just did, and the wine is crisp and cool, with a delicate fruity taste. It’s so good, I drank half a glass in only a couple of swallows.

  Dangerous.

  We make idle small talk about the weather and how our workdays went, but eventually I’m dying to get right to the gist of it. My curiosity can no longer be contained.

  “So I’m guessing you sent me flowers because you heard about Tiffany showing up at Noteworthy a few days ago,” I say once the server has left our table.

  He has the decency to look embarrassed as he ducks his head. “I can’t believe she did that,” he says to the table.

  “How did you find out?” Finally I’m going to get answers.

  “We were arguing a few nights ago, and she made an off-hand comment about having a little chat with you, but that was all she said. So I called Noteworthy and spoke to your boss, Iris,” Alex explains.

  I swallow hard, my gaze snagging on my wineglass. Would it be uncool if I drained it right now? Probably. “You spoke to Iris?”

  “Yes, I did. And while she wasn’t a witness to the incident, she did tell me exactly what happened, as per your and another employee’s description. She also mentioned that you filed a police report.”

  Oh God, he’s probably offended that I did that. We’re talking about his ex—yet recent—fiancée after all. “I filed the report at Iris’s urging. She was so upset over what Tiffany did, she wanted to press charges for vandalism, but the cops told her there wasn’t enough damage to the store.”

  “I understand why you filed. What Tiffany did was completely uncalled for,” Alex says as he lifts his head, his deep voice soft, his gaze sincere when it meets mine.