Scored (V-Card Diaries 1)

“I do,” I say, “but I think we should also plan on helping ourselves. You up for taking Jess and me shopping later today for a few date-ready outfits?”

Harlow’s eyes light up with a feverish joy only her fellow shopaholic fashion hunters can understand. “I’ll wake her now. We ride at dawn! Or close to dawn since the sun is already up.” She stuffs the last of my pancake in her mouth and claps her hands like a kid who just found a princess chest full of dresses under the tree on Christmas morning. “This is going to be the best day ever! I’ve been waiting to get my hands on your delicious bodies for years. I’m going to make you both look so fucking incredible the men of New York will hurl themselves at your feet.”

“The way you put that was a little creepy,” I say with a laugh as she bounces out of her chair. “But I’m down, as long as we can find things that are comfortable, too. You know I can’t deal with anything that’s too tight or stiff or buttons around my neck. My neck must be free at all times.”

“Yes, yes, my pet, never fear, I’ll fairy godmother you with a mind to your comfort and button phobia.” She waves a hand over her shoulder as she hurries toward her room, stopping on the way to knock on Jess’s door and call out, “Come out, come out, it’s time to go shopping!”

A beat later Jess’s mumbled voice drifts from within. “Not a chance in hell.”

“Come on. You can’t rock seduction lessons without a seductive outfit,” Harlow says, before adding in a wheedling tone, “And if you’re a good little shopper, I’ll take you to that vintage arcade you like after lunch.”

A moment later, Jess’s door opens a crack, and she squints out at Harlow. “Really? And we’ll stay more than ten minutes?”

“Twenty minutes,” Harlow promises. “And I won’t make fun of any of the games while we’re there.”

“Thirty minutes and you have to play, too,” Jess counters. “And whatever you make me buy, it has to be something I can wear without a bra. I’m not doing a bra, not for all the sex in Manhattan.”

“I can work with that,” Harlow says, a devious grin on her face that would make me nervous if I were Jess.

But Jess doesn’t have her glasses on, so she probably can’t see the way Harlow’s eyes are shooting “wicked scheme” sparks. “Okay, cool. I’ll be ready in ten minutes. Please put a large amount of coffee in my to-go mug. I barely slept last night. I was too busy having stress dreams about my new promotion.”

“Don’t have stress dreams!” I say, rising from my chair. “You’re going to be great. And I’ll get that coffee warmed up for you as soon as I’m dressed.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re out the door, leaving Cameron, who Harlow has dubbed “decently fashionable for a guy” alone to work on a recipe for a new appetizer he’s pitching to the executive chef at the restaurant tonight.

Harlow drags us past all the chain stores near the Canal Street subway station, heading uptown, then turning left, toward the upscale designer stores that line Christopher Street and the other trendy areas of the West Village.

“I have a budget of three hundred dollars total,” I warn her. “And that’s if I make my lunch every day next week instead of hitting the taco truck.”

“Tacos,” Jess murmurs. “Oh my God, that sounds so good right now.”

“It’s ten a.m.,” Harlow says.

“Shopping makes me anxious, and anxiety makes me hungry,” Jess says. “For tacos. Or maybe a burrito, a really fat one with extra guacamole.”

“No need to be anxious, sweet squirrel,” Harlow says. “And no need to worry about the budget, either. I have a secret, super affordable shopping honey hole I’m going to share with the two of you. But only because you’re my best friends and I trust you not to share this secret with others.” She sniffs. “And because you aren’t my size, so if you get addicted to fashion, you won’t buy up anything I want before I can get there.”

“I think I’m more likely to get addicted to crack than shopping,” Jess says, casting a longing look at a brunch place advertising “the best huevos rancheros in the city!” as we pass by, murmuring, “I bet they have tacos. Good ones, too.”

“But they don’t have vintage Yves Saint Laurent or Coco Chanel,” Harlow says, stopping beside a nondescript brick stairway leading up into one of the more dilapidated buildings on this block. “We’re here, ladies. Brace yourself. After this morning, you’ll never be quite the same.”

Jess gulps but I’m buzzing with excitement and not just because I downed another cup of coffee before we left the apartment.