“That’s never stopped you before,” I point out, rummaging through the kit. Damn. The eyeshadow is in crumbles and the eyeliner’s melty. It might still work, but I’m afraid I’ll make myself look like a raccoon—or worse, get pink eye—if I risk it.
“Where did you meet this guy? What’s his name?”
I roll my eyes so hard they nearly fall out of my head. “I’ve got to run, Ian.”
“See, you’re already not telling me things!”
“Well, if you want,” I start with a little smirk, “you can come over to help me find the rest of my makeup and a dress to wear out to—”
“Fuck. Girl. Problems,” my brother hisses then lets out a relenting sigh. “Just be sure to text me when you get home, okay? And be safe.” I promise I will and he hangs up faster than it takes me to cross the room and shut off the phone. I’m grinning as I do. Ian’s predictable as clockwork. At least I always have that secret weapon to get him to shut up when necessary.
Now, to address the bigger issue at hand. I have hardly any makeup, no idea what to wear, and no one to text for advice—at least nobody who cares enough about what to wear on a first date. I run a hand through my hair, surveying the mess I’ve made of my bedroom and living room trying to root out an outfit. Clothes are strewn everywhere, jeans hanging off my desk chair and the couch, and dresses scattered across the bed like a new patchwork bedspread.
A soft knock interrupts my train of thought, and I poke my head out my bedroom to frown at the front door. God, I hope it’s not my landlord again. He already rang my doorbell early this morning asking if I’ve seen any bugs in here because the exterminators are coming out later this week.
As I cross the room, another thought hits me. It can’t be Stone, can it? He’s not early? I’m not ready and now my place is a worse disaster than ever. I peek through the peephole and breathe a sigh of relief. It’s the blonde who lives next door. I undo the locks and open the door slightly. “Hi?”
She immediately breaks into a smile so huge and genuine that I can’t help smiling back. “I know this is random, but my roommate is out of town, and, well…” She trails off then does a half-turn to show me her back. The dress she’s wearing, a sexy black lacy number that looks like it was made specifically for her tall, willowy frame, is only partially zipped.
“I’m the least flexible person on the planet, I swear to god,” she says over her shoulder. “Would you mind?”
I laugh. “I know the feeling, don’t worry,” I reassure her as I zip her dress the rest of the way. “There you go.”
“Oh my god, you’re a lifesaver, thank you so much.” Turning to face me, she rests her hands on her slim hips and grins, shaking her head. “Men never know what we go through for them, you know?”
I snort. “You’re telling me.”
Her gaze darts past me to the living room behind me. “Uh oh. You in date prep mode too?”
I kick the door open wider. “You have no idea. I don?
??t even have makeup that’s not a total shitstorm, let alone an outfit to wear tonight.”
“Need some help?” But she’s already crossing the threshold before I can say a word. “I’m Amanda, by the way.”
“Skye.”
“Awesome name,” she tells me as she surveys the wreckage that is my normally tidy studio. She looks up from a hot pink halter top that still has the clearance tags on it. “Okay, what date number?”
“First,” I reply, a flush rising to my cheeks. I’ve never been so on edge about a first date, but I’ve also never gone out with a man like Xander Stone. “It’s, uh … it’s been a while since I’ve gone out.”
I’m not sure she hears me, because Amanda has already jumped into motion, pulling another shirt from one corner of the couch and a pair of tight black jeans from the coffee table, then brushing past me and into my bedroom to search my closet. Before I know it, she’s got no less than three viable outfits laid out on the bed, and we’re comparing the various looks against my (admittedly lacking) accessory collection.
“Okay, I’m voting for the black jeans, the ruched gray shirt, and the triangle earrings because they make the whole outfit kind of punk. Oh, and the leather-sleeved blazer—that is killer, can I borrow it sometime?”
Next thing I know, we’re both crowded into her bathroom, and she’s doing the best winged eyeliner on me I’ve ever seen, before picking out a shade of red lipstick that she swears will make him stare at my lips all night long.
“So, how come you haven’t gone out with anyone in a while?” she asks as she passes me a simple silver drop-necklace she insists I borrow.
I shrug, double-checking my teeth in the mirror to be sure I haven’t smeared red all over the front. “No idea. A combination of things, I guess? No one’s really caught my eye, but I’ve been distracted with work and saving up to pay off my student loans.”
Her expression turns knowing when she catches my eye in the mirror again. “Woman, you cannot wait to be debt-free to start living. No one would ever get married, let alone reproduce.”
I stifle a laugh. “Yeah, well, it’s hard to think about anything like dating or committing or whatever while still being so … you know. Broke.”
“Well what would you want to do, if you could do anything?”
Open my own restaurant, I think immediately. Which is stupid. Insane. If I learned anything in the business management classes I took in college, restaurants fail at least seventy-five percent of the time. And if I’ve learned anything more working at Monroe’s for the last few years, it’s that restaurant owners—or at least our owner—seem chronically depressed.