Page 30 of Just The Way You Aren't

“I’ll pick you up at five-thirty sharp,” I warn her gruffly as I message Rhonda and add the gala to my schedule in my phone.

Willow grins at me. “I’ll try not to be even a minute late.”

“I mean it, Willow. If you’re not downstairs when I arrive, I will go in and carry you out in your underwear if I have to.” I can’t keep the grumpiness in my tone, however. I smile, even as I say, “You’re far too loose with time.”

“Yes, Mr. Organized, I will be ready on time. Mainly because I don’t really want to give a speech about Silver Hearts in my underwear.” She giggles. “Though it might attract some attention to the organization.”

“Hmm.” I suddenly don’t like the idea of Willow being in her underwear in front of anyone. Anyone who isn’t me, that is.

She either doesn’t catch my grumble or chooses to ignore it. “Now, about the baskets…”

I watch her as she uncovers her errant pen and starts scribbling notes, her demeanor back to its usual thousand-megawatt brightness. She babbles on about the fundraiser and I nod where it seems appropriate while I stare at her sweet little mouth and the pink gloss on her lips that makes me think about all the places I’d like to feel those lips on my body. Each time she stretches to reach for a file on her cluttered desk it’s all I can do to keep from lunging across it and dragging her into my arms.

Damn. I don’t know what kind of hold this woman has on me, but it’s getting harder to fight it. Harder to admit I’m not totally turned on by everything about her—even the aggravating parts. Christ, maybe especially those.

Willow Harper is not my type. She doesn’t come from myworld, I remind myself sternly. And there’s a million bucks saying I shouldn’t be thinking about her, anyway.

“What do you think, Damien?” she asks.

“Hmm?” This time I’m the one who sounds genuinely confused. I’ve been too busy wondering what Willow looks like in her underwear. And out of it.

“The baskets?” she prompts me. “Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

Shit. Now it’s my turn to be embarrassed. “Of course I have. The baskets. Right. Whatever you think is best.”

CHAPTER 11

WILLOW

Red. It just had to be red.

I look at myself in the mirror and try not to panic. I’m wearing a full-length dress with a plunging halter neck and a thigh-high slit, not to mention an open back that ends about half an inch lower than I’d like. What was I thinking borrowing something from Abby? When she’s not at Silver Hearts, Abby is naturally drawn to more risqué fashion choices than I am. I should have remembered that.

Sure, we might be the same size on paper, but my boobs are trying to burst out of the front of the dress and my round butt is the only thing holding the back of the gown in place.

Now, it’s too late.

I frown at the photo on my open laptop and try very, very hard to tame my thick, wavy red hair into something resembling the French twist I’m seeing on the model going to her own black-tie event, but the claw clip just won’t grab all of my hair and finally gives up and snaps in half while trying.

Fine. I’m going to have to wear it down around my shoulders instead.

I eye the red, strappy, high-heeled sandals Mrs. Baumgartner excitedly unearthed from her closet. Abby and I don’t have the same shoe size. But apparently Mrs. Baumgartner and I do. This was a good thing, I thought, until it occurred to me that I never wear high heels.

Have I ever worn high heels? I wonder to myself. If I have, I can’t remember. Whatever. How hard can it be?

I slip the sandals on, buckling them over my ankle, marveling at how the color matches the dress exactly. Of course, when I lean over to fasten them, my breasts threaten to pop out of the bodice, and I stand up quickly.

And topple into my closet door.

Tiny looks up from where he’s destroying one of my tennis shoes and Rufus and Mingo just stare nonplussed from the bed. They’ve already knocked my phone off the bedside dresser, sending it bouncing under the bed.

My phone! I didn’t think about a clutch.

I can’t exactly carry one of the Dominican purses Juana gave me that her mother made on a backstrap loom many moons ago. That wouldn’t match the dress at all, though I still considered them the most precious purses in my possession.

“Rufus, Mingo, I don’t have a purse!” Neither of them seems to care. I teeter over to the bed and fish my phone out from underneath it. Would anyone at the gala notice if I tucked it into the bodice of the dress? If not, they’d definitely notice me digging around for it anytime I go to use it. Besides, the added bulk would just make one of my boobs look weird.

I’m still on the floor with my ass in the air when a confident knock at the door announces that Damien is here. I groan. Then, with no other choice, I carry my phone in my hand.

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