Page 13 of The One Night Dash
“Two days?” Dash asks, like he’s not pushing—just confident it can happen.
Sal shakes his head but grins. “You’re lucky I like you.” Then, flicking his gaze to me, he says, “Be careful with this one. He’s got a face and a smile that’ll get you in trouble.”
“Oh, no, no, it’s not like that,” I blurt before my brain can stop me. “We’ve just … known each other for years. College. He dated—well, notdated-dated—my sorority sister. We have mutual friends. He’s friends with my friend Nalani’s man. He’s just … giving me a ride. A favor. And—” I clamp my mouth shut before I start narrating our entire history and the fact that I once imagined him married with a golden retriever.
Dash just stands there, smirking, like he’s watching a show.
Sal chuckles. “Uh-huh. That’s what they all say.”
“Sal,” Dash says with mock warning, though his voice stays warm.
Sal waves us off. “You’ll have it back in two days. Go cause trouble somewhere else.”
“Thank you so much. I appreciate this.” I stop myself from diving too deep with Dash-freaking-Sterling. He’s not one of the girls, although there is a pending rant when Dash grips my shoulders from behind and chuckles as he turns me toward the door.
He lets go and opens the door. “See? Easy.”
Stepping outside, I exhale, as if saving that dress was like saving the world from crashing down.
“Thanks, Dash.”
“It’s not a problem.” He winks as he opens the door to the SUV.
Climbing in, I feel the need to explain, “A good dress is more than fabric. It’s armor and magic stitched together. It holds its own kind of power. Makes you stand taller and breathe deeper.”
It’s more than that, but as much as mansplaining is an annoyance, I’m going to guess men —aside from my father, who loved to hear my ramblings—don’t particularly care for shesplaining. It makes you believe—if only for a night—that you could walk into a room and change your story.
In no way would I ever try to outshine a bride, even Lauren—not that I could—but you can bet I’ll remember the faces of my friends when they saw me in it, and that memory will stay etched in my mind long enough to get through the night.
“You’re talking to a man who gets it. Gearing up for games, there are things I need on my body or in certain places. It screws with my head if they’re not.” I see him fiddle with his watch.
I would almost bet the bookstore that the watch he’s wearing is from his father. It’s the same one he wore in college.
Lauren used to talk about how expensive it was after she looked it up online. I’ll admit I was impressed.
“He’s wearing a Rolex Daytona, Noelle.”
“A what?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes at me. “And that’s the reason he should be mine. Introduce us.”
So I did, as she was waiting outside of our nineteenth-century lit class.
His driver looks back, and Dash says, “Nearest cell repair shop next.”
Three lights later, the driver pulls over and starts to get out.
“No need, Joel. I got this.” Dash opens the door and steps out, waving his hand toward the glass storefront.
We step inside the shop, greeted by the harsh buzz of fluorescent lights. Behind the counter, a kid who can’t be more than twenty slouches on a stool, hoodie half-zipped, an earbud in one ear. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
I slide my phone across the scratched laminate counter. He takes it, taps a few buttons, and doesn’t bother making eye contact. “Battery’s shot,” he murs. “You can pick it up tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. My stomach twists. Tomorrow might as well be next year.
Before I can protest, Dash steps up beside me, close enough that the kid’s head jerks up at the sudden shadow. Dash doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to. He just clears his throat, that low, deliberate sound that makes people instinctively straighten their spines.
“Any chance we can take a deeper dive?” Dash asks, voice polite but naturally deep enough to convey authority. “MissPembrooke’s phone was working before it had an unfortunate run-in with a cup of coffee.”
