Page 25 of All of You

“Thank you. Have a good weekend.”

“See you next week and hi Ben I’m Damon,” he said, all in one breath as he grabbed a set of keys and gave me a finger-fluttering wave.

“Hi and bye, Damon,” I said as he rushed past me. I shuffled out of the doorway so he could get by, then turned my attention to Whit.

And tried not to audibly express the torment building in me when I looked at her.

Good work, God, was all I could think.

“Sorry for the chaos,” she said.

Or I thought she said, but my brain was busy cataloguing her standing there. Her long hair had been pulled over one shoulder, the other side pinned back behind her ear. Her face looked typically gorgeous, eyes dark with long lashes, perfect skin and lush, expertly glossed lips. She tugged the tie on her short, silk baby pink robe tighter.

“I’m going to run put on my dress, and then we’ll get going, okay?” she said, apparently totally unaware the sight of her was causing a severe case of heart-stop.

I grunted out an “uh-huh” and shifted my eyes away from her to the counter full of tiny pots and palettes of makeup.

Two minutes later, she emerged, clothed in a short red dress that fell halfway down her toned thighs. It had cap sleeves, a thing I knew about thanks to Bridgette’s insistence on modeling her clothes when I was too young to protest. The dress fit close to her body—so close, I doubted she had much underneath.

I cleared my throat, pulling my eyes away from her, and turning to the doorway. “It’s pretty cold out—you’ll probably want a jacket.”

“I’ve got one in the closet downstairs,” she said from behind me.

“Do you have people do your hair and makeup for everything?” I followed through the hallway Amanda had brought me down, retracing my steps to the more familiar territory of the kitchen.

“No. I prefer not to, but when there’s going to be lots of press, I do. And since the purpose of tonight is to draw attention to us being together, I figured I might as well look decent.”

She pulled open a closet door in the entryway of the house and sifted through hangers until she pulled out a short black leather jacket.

“What’s this event?” I asked, noticing the lines of the wood below my feet, the smooth curve of the arching doorway into the sitting room to the left of the entrance, the intricate weave of a pillow on the couch in that room I couldn’t actually see—anything to keep from letting my eyes run over the dip and swell of her body wrapped so tightly in that dress.

“A fundraiser for a Veterans’ organization. I’m not sure what.”

My eyes jerked to hers.

“Oh, cool.” Best to keep my voice level even though my heart accelerated.

“Something like Wounded Warrior project, but it’s a local thing using music for rehabilitation of PTSD, I think. I’m sorry to say I’ve forgotten the name.” She pulled on her jacket, then straightened to her full height—a whopping five-foot-five including her heels—and studied my face. “You okay with that?”

“Yep. I’m good.” And then, to distract from my weirdly physical response to the fundraiser’s focus, I said, “Am I acceptable?” while holding out my hands and turning side to side.

She made a face like she was closely evaluating me, tapping her chin with a finger, then nodded. “You’ll do.”

I chuckled. “Good.”

“And me?” The sweet smile on her face did not betray the fact that she had to know she looked good.

I widened my stance and crossed my arms, mimicking her chin-tap thought process. “I’m going to tell you something I’m fairly certain no one has ever said to you.”

Her face fell a bit. “Okay…”

“You are incredibly beautiful, Whit.”

Her smile tugged to one side, and she clasped her hands in front of her. “Thank you, Ben.”

“And if you’re trying to make sure we get noticed, you definitely chose the right dress,” I added. Because I’m an idiot.

“Oh?” Her smile didn’t waver for a second.

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