dinner meeting,” Christine clarified. “Saturday night.”
She still couldn’t believe she’d agreed to it. Not only that, she didn’t want to believe it. The man was devious and manipulative and…and he thought she was cute. Right. As if she believed that.
“What do you suppose he’s really after?” she asked Alison as they sat side by side on Christine’s sofa, wearing their sweats, a popcorn bowl between them, their stocking feet propped on the coffee table as the opening credits to the movie Alison had chosen for their traditional “Wednesday night at the movies” rolled by.
“What’s he after? Sweetie, I’ve been trying to tell you. He’s after you,” Alison said, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to her chest. “This is a tearjerker,” she added offhandedly as if she hadn’t just made the most ridiculous statement of the year.
“He is not after me,” Christine insisted and dug into the popcorn.
“So why did he fabricate yet another excuse to see you in the guise of leveling conditions on giving you Jess Golden’s things? No man goes to those lengths to tease a woman unless it’s because he’s interested in her.”
There was no convincing Alison otherwise, so Christine let it drop. She watched the movie. And told herself Alison was all wet. Jacob Thorne was not interested in her. It didn’t make any sense that he would be. A man like him. A woman like her. Talk about oil and water.
“So. Where are you two going on your second date?”
“It’s not a date,” Christine insisted. “And where do you get second?”
“Who paid for lunch?”
“Well, he did but—”
“Then it’s a second date. Now, where are you going?”
“Claire’s,” she finally confessed.
“Oh là là! Big-time date.”
Christine only grunted. She’d never been to Royal’s swanky French restaurant. Claire’s wasn’t exactly in her everyday budget. Or even in her special-occasion budget, for that matter. And while she wasn’t looking forward to spending an evening—that was not a date—in Thorne’s company, she couldn’t help but be excited about getting a little taste of how the upper crust lived.
“What are you going to wear?”
Christine shrugged and feigned interest in the movie. “I hadn’t really thought about it.” Okay. That was a lie. It’s all she’d thought about. “Probably my black pantsuit.”
Alison sat up straight. “Eeewwww. You can’t go to Claire’s in that boxy old thing.”
“What do you mean, old thing? It’s only—” She stopped and thought. Hmm. It had been a long time since she’d bought the suit.
“Tomorrow we’re going shopping during our lunch hour,” Alison said. “And you’re going to buy something sexy.”
“I am not.”
“Are, too.”
“I. Am. Not.”
“We’ll see,” Alison said. “Now let’s watch the movie. I’m due for a good cry.”
The dress was black. And short. And low cut.
The heels were silver. And spiked. And strappy. And they showed off siren-red toenail polish that Alison had insisted was perfect for the total look.
She had a look, all right, Christine thought, hovering just one notch to the left of panicked on Saturday night. A look she’d never in a million years thought she could pull off. Yet as she took it all in—experiencing a mixture of disbelief and shock and a pleasurable womanly confidence—in her full-length bedroom mirror, Christine had to admit Alison was right.
She looked hot.
“Okay. That settles it. I’m changing.”
Alison laughed. “Don’t even think about it,” she said, standing behind her like a drill sergeant.
Right. She’d forgotten about Alison for a minute there. Her friend had insisted she help Christine get ready for her dinner meeting and then informed her she was going to stick around until Jacob arrived just to make sure she didn’t chicken out and ditch the new duds for the black pantsuit.
“Alison, I look ridiculous.”
“You look fabulous.”
“I look obvious.”
“I really like the hair, too,” Alison added, ignoring Christine’s discomfort.
Yeah. Christine had to admit Alison was right about that, too. Her hair did look great. Alison had scooped it up to the crown of her head and wrestled it into a spiky little puff that looked chic and hip and—yeah, she admitted, still amazed—sexy.
It was a word that had never fit her.
Conservative—now, there was a word she wore well. A word that was comfortable, unlike the way she felt wearing this dress. She had to change clothes. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
“Okay. Thank you, thank you, thank you for everything. You’ve transformed the pumpkin into a fancy coach, Fairy Godmother. You must be exhausted. Why don’t you go on home now?”
“Yeah, right,” Alison said. “And give you a chance to change into something less revealing, less sexy and more conservative the minute I walk out the door? Uh-uh. Besides, it’s too late. Mr. Wonderful just pulled up.”
Well, yikes, Christine thought and tugged up the plunging neckline in a vain attempt to cover a little more skin.
“Go,” Alison said and gave her an encouraging squeeze. “Answer the door. And let the begging begin.”
Yeah. As if Jacob Thorne would ever beg for her.
On a deep breath she walked out of the bedroom. Her knees were wobbly as she headed down the hall and regarded the front door to her apartment as if Jack the Ripper were about to make an impromptu appearance.
Not Jack. Jacob. Jacob the Thorne. And his knock was solid and confident.
She wished she could say the same about her knees. This was so ridiculous. The way she looked. The way she’d dressed. The outrageous way her heart was hammering. All because the man on the other side of the door had orchestrated a pretend date to have a little more fun at her expense.
The reminder was all she needed to regain her composure. He wanted to make a joke of her? Fine. At least she was turned out in a way that might give him a twinge of regret.
She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt and immediately regretted that she may have soiled the delicate silk crepe. Regrouping, she pasted on a smile and opened the door.
“Hi,” she said and had the disarming experience of watching his arrogant hey-baby grin slowly deflate to
