Page 89 of Personal Foul

“If you plan any meetups, text me their details,” Charity calls over her shoulder. “And if you want me to use the emergency protocols.”

“Of course, of course. You be safe, too. I’m also happy to provide emergency protocols, but I have a feeling that won’t be necessary.”

Laughing, Charity heads out the door and I follow, Isabelle closing it behind us.

“Emergency protocols?” I ask as I hit the button on my key to unlock the car.

Charity pulls open the passenger door while I put her bag in the back. “Calling with an emergency to rescue the other from a bad date.”

“Ah, right,” I nod. “Makes sense. I’m glad she doesn’t think you’ll need that with me.”

Charity laughs. “God, I could’ve used it when I showed up at your place that first time, though. Except that wasn’t a date, so …”

“Ha. Right.” I climb into the driver’s seat and buckle up, pausing to look at her before starting the car. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you didn’t bail, even though I fully expected you to, with or without a friend calling with a fake emergency.”

She gives me a quizzical look. “Um, thanks?”

Laughing, I start the car. “If you’d bailed at the beginning, I don’t think we’d have ended up here.”

“Well, since it wasn’t a date, and you were actively blackmailing me, it didn’t seem like something I could bail from.”

My laughter dies at the pain underlying her tone. Reaching over, I rest my hand on her leg and give it a squeeze. “I’m sorry for doing that to you. I wish that the story we tell everyone—that we reconnected because our friends were hanging out together—was the whole truth. If I could go back in time and redo our start, I would in a heartbeat.”

She threads her fingers through mine, and I flip my hand over so I can hold her hand. “I know,” she murmurs. “I wish that too.” Lifting her head, she flashes a smile at me. “Think how much more time we could’ve had together if you’d been nice to me instead of antagonistic from the beginning.”

Laughing, I give her hand a quick squeeze before releasing it, then back out of the parking space. “Hey, now. I was perfectly nice to you when Isabelle was trying to date Andrew. You were the one who said you wanted to see me ‘never the fuck again.’”

She laughs too. “Okay, fine. You’re right. I suppose I could’ve been nicer to you as well.” She points a finger at me. “That’s no excuse for blackmailing me though.”

“I know. I behaved horribly.” I glance at her, my face serious now. “That is one thing that I will regret until my dying day.”

“You’ve already apologized. And while I’m glad to know that you are in fact sorry, you don’t have to apologize to me forever. Besides, your behavior now is more proof of your apology than your words.” Just like that, she’s done talking about our past, and with a smile, she changes the subject and starts telling me about her day.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Charity

“This is really weird,” I mutter as I get into the elevator on Dylan’s floor.

He glances at me as he pushes the button for the lobby. “What’s so weird about it?”

I shrug, glancing around at the shiny chrome walls. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a dude come dress shopping with me before. Usually it’s been my mom, or one of my friends, or one time my sister. Of course, she was long gone by the time I had the need or my parents had the finances to go fancy dress shopping. Either way, no one male was ever involved.”

Grinning at me, he takes my hand as the elevator doors slide open, and we walk through the lobby together, turning right once we’re outside. “Well, I’m happy to be the first.”

We looked at the links Dylan’s sister sent him last night and this morning, and we found a boutique nearby that carries one of the designers she mentioned. Dylan insisted we check it out right away, and since it’s only two blocks away, we decided to walk.

That’s the other part that surprised me. The fact that he even asked his sister for recommendations seems like it means something. It shows a level of care I didn’t entirely expect, though I think that’s more to do with our history than his recent behavior. But it’s another stone in the bridge building my trust in him.

It’s like I said last night, his actions show me more about his sincerity than a litany of apologies.

Once inside the shop, we’re immediately greeted by a slim woman with short black hair in a designer dress. Her demeanor brightens when Dylan gives his name, like she was expecting us. “Yes, Mr. Thompson. I’m so glad you’re here. We’ve pulled a few pieces by the designer you requested, as well as a few others that we thought might work based on that request.” To me, she says, “The dressing room is this way.”

I glance at Dylan, eyebrows raised. He gives me a quick smile and releases my hand. “Have fun.”

The assistant leads the way, gesturing at plush wingback chairs upholstered in rich, teal velvet. “You can sit here. We’ll be out shortly.”

I’m given a strapless bra to change into before I’m bustled in and out of a variety of dresses with polite efficiency, then ushered out to the little dais in front of several mirrors and evaluated by Dylan and the assistant.

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