“
You’ll need a dress,” I tell her and wait for the objection I know is coming.
“I have dresses,” she replies, but tiny lines of concern mar her forehead and I’ve been with enough women to know what’s going through her head. Does she have the right dress for this? How fancy is the event? What will everyone else be wearing? Add to that—she can’t have the budget for a dress. She’s fresh out of college and on a teacher’s salary, both of which tell me it isn’t likely she has an appropriate dress hanging in her closet. Shit, this entire scheme is pure genius, I think, as I make a mental note to cancel the date I had lined up for this wedding when I get home.
This is a formal event. We’ll pick up a dress this weekend.”
She gives me a dirty look. “What do you mean we’ll pick up a dress this weekend?”
“I mean shopping. I’ll pick you up at ten on Saturday.”
“I can find a dress by myself,” she says firmly.
“Please. You were wearing pants with donuts on them the second time I saw you. If you can even call those things pants.” Fucking leggings left nothing to the imagination. And I’ve done a lot of imagining. Mostly involving her legs wrapped around my hips. “Half my family is going to be there. I’ll pick out the dress.” I could give a fuck about the dress. I want to spend time with her that she thinks isn’t a date, so she’ll relax and be herself.
“Well, that was rude,” she deadpans.
I shrug. “Besides, you’re doing me a favor,” I remind her, “so the dress is on me.”
“Whatever,” she agrees sullenly.
“You’re welcome,” I reply.
”
”