The F-Word

It takes me less than a second to come up with the answer.

That look reaches right inside and does something funny to my heart.

“Hey,” I say, smiling as I get to my feet.

“It’s not, is it? All right, I mean.”

Well, no. It’s not. The good news? She’s not wearing one of those suits. The bad? If one of those suits could give birth to a dress, this would be it.

The dress is, I don’t know, it’s like stripes. Horizontal stripes. And it’s made of something chunky. Wrong word. Heavy. Still wrong, but hell, what do I know about fabric? This stuff is…thick. It looks like it could stand up all by itself. Plus, it’s just—it’s just not right. The sleeves go to her wrists. The neckline’s so high I’m surprised she isn’t gasping for breath. Okay. It’s not the dress’s neckline. It’s the neckline of a matching jacket.

And the skirt…Same as any guy I’m a big fan of those little dresses that just about cover a woman’s thighs, but okay, maybe not on Bailey. It wouldn’t be right. Not that I don’t think she’s probably got great thighs—yeah, sure, I’ve given them a couple of minutes thought since last night, when those yoga pants or whatever you call them hinted at what was beneath…

How did I get off on this track?

The point is, Bailey’s not the kind of girl you’d pick up in a bar. Or find on Tinder. I wouldn’t want to see her ass when she bends over. Well, I would, but only if we were alone and we’ll be in public tonight…And I didn’t mean that about wanting to see her ass if we were alone. Or maybe I did. Because, really, I’ve spent enough time looking at her the past, what, twenty-four hours to know that she’s an attractive woman. Easy on the eyes. Pretty…

Shit.

She’s beautiful, if she’d just stop hiding behind the baggy clothes, the pulled-back hair, the clunky shoes.

They’re not quite as clunky tonight, but they’d still qualify as the kind of shoes a woman would wear if she were heading off on a ten-mile march. And, yes, her hair is pulled back, secured low on her neck with a band. And before you think I’ve forgotten the length of that dress, I haven’t. It’s not thigh-high which, I’ve already said, is okay. It’s not above-the-knee, which would fine. It’s not right-below-the-knee, which wouldn’t be great, but I could live with that.

The hem of this thing hits at mid-calf. My mom wears her skirts shorter than that.

“Matthew.”

I look up. Her mouth is trembling.

“I bought this last year. For an aunt and uncle’s fortieth anniversary party. It’s the only dress-up thing I have.”

“Don’t tell me,” I say carefully. “You were home. And Cousin Violet went shopping with you.”

She nods. Her mouth trembles a little more.

“I look hideous,” she says, and before I can think about it too long, I reach for her and pull her into my arms.

She’s a little stiff at first and then she gives a muffled sob and leans into me.

My arms tighten around her.

She feels warm and soft.

The simple truth is, she feels wonderful.

I murmur some nonsense words, sort of the way I did one day when my little niece fell down and skinned her knees. I run one hand up and down Bailey’s spine. Mostly, I just hold her.

I close my eyes. Damn, she smells good. And her hair, even plastered back the way it is, feels soft when I stroke my hand over it.

Instinctively, I pull off the elastic that’s confining it. It tumbles free, a mass of curls that frame her face and shoulders.

She mumbles something. Reluctantly, I draw back a little and look down at her.

“I couldn’t hear what you said,” I tell her softly.

She looks up at me. “I said that this is never going to work.”

Her eyes are damp. Glittering with tears. Carefully, I wipe them away with my thumbs.