Wherever It Leads(6)

I blush at his admonishment.

“Second, I’d love to take you to dinner tonight.”

I know Presley gasps but neither I nor the exotic stranger in front of me acknowledges it. We’re standing in the busy market, but it seems like it’s just the two of us.

“That’s not necessary,” I whisper.

“What time shall I pick you up?”

“Oh, I, uh . . .”

He grins like he’s just won a small victory. All coherent thoughts float away, replaced with lewd visions of him baring his lean body. He stands smugly and I wonder if he has some kind of telepathy and can read minds. Presley steps next to me and elbows me in the side.

“Does six work for you?” he presses.

My mouth won’t work. The words won’t come out.

It’s not that I don’t want to go, because I do. But is it safe? We just met this guy. I don’t even know his name.

Start there.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Fenton Abbott.”

“She’ll be ready at six, Fenton,” Presley says, speaking for me. “And thank you for finding her phone.”

“Can you text me your address?”

“I’ll meet you somewhere,” I compromise.

“I’d like to pick you up.”

“Driving to a public spot is safer than being at your mercy, you know?”

His smirk is delicious. So delicious, in fact, I almost want to just say f*ck it and be at his mercy in the middle of the produce section. But I hold my ground.

“Smart girl. I’m impressed. I’ll text you the address of the restaurant.”

“You don’t have my . . .” I start to say, but I realize he’s already taken my number.

He smirks. “I need to get my shopping done, ladies. I’ll text you when I return home, Brynne.”

“Okay.” The word falls from my lips before I can think about it.

With a final glimpse, he turns and heads down the canned soup aisle. Presley and I watch his long legs and tight ass until he’s out of sight. Then we collapse into one another, breathing for what feels like the first time in ages.

“My Lord! Did you see that man?” she asks, locking her arm through mine and leading me back out of the store. “Holy shit!”

“See him? Did you smell him? Did you hear him?”

“Cashmere,” she says, slipping her sunglasses back on. “My Hottie Radar is on point. I should charge a fee for scanning men for people. Have him call me, pay me a hundred bucks, and I’ll tell you whether he’s cute or not.”

“That was impressive, Pres. Totally impressive.”

“Right? And you have a date, my friend!”

“Fuck.” The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. I have no idea what to wear. I’m not properly shaved and groomed and—

“You have me. Don’t panic. I’ll make sure you’re ready,” Presley promises.

I watch her smile and I’m certain I’ve never appreciated having Presley Bradshaw as a friend more than I do right now.





I turn in front of the mirror, repeating Presley’s opinion over and over.

You look like a total babe. That dress was meant for you.

The bright yellow dress clings to my curves, a tiny vertical sliver cut out at my left shoulder. My blonde hair hangs in beachy curls, and Presley has highlighted, contoured, and bronzed my face like only someone that can spend hours on end playing with makeup and a trust fund can.

I feel beautiful. I’ve primped and shaved and waxed and curled and taken care of myself in a way I haven’t in a long time. It feels good. I’d forgotten what it feels like to pamper myself on this sort of level.

“Try these on,” Presley says, tossing me a pair of turquoise heels. I raise my brows and she hushes me with a twist of her head. “No. No arguing. I’m the designer here. Put them on.”

I have no clue if they match, but I’m too nervous to argue.

“He did text you where to meet him, right?”

“Yes,” I reply, standing on one foot and slipping on the second heel. “He literally just sent the address and name of the restaurant. That’s it. Nothing else. No ‘excited to see you’ or anything.”

I huff a breath and stand, not bothering to look in the mirror. Presley’s lit up face tells me I’ll be wearing these whether I like it or not.

“Is this even safe?” I ask her. “We met him today. A handful of hours ago, to be exact. In a grocery store. And all we know is that he’s gorgeous and cyberspace gives us nothing other than he exists.” The realization hits me hard. “Oh my God, I’m gonna die tonight . . .”

“Stop it. You’re being dramatic.”

“It’s not dramatic. It’s self-preservation.”

“It’s a date,” she laughs. She places a hand on my shoulder. “Can I just say that you have that sparkle in your eye that I used to see before we’d go out on a Friday night and dance until we had a line of boys ready to take us home?”

“It’s the bronzer.”

“No, it’s not, you jerk,” she laughs. She bumps my hip with hers. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “I haven’t done this in so long . . . it does feel good, Pres. I feel like me.”