Page 44 of Faking All the Way
But something about that felt too personal, too intimate, like crossing a line that I’m not sure we should cross. So I didn’t.
The stuff with Edward has been going okay too, which surprises me almost as much as the thing with Kat. I’ve gone to his place two more times, doing more work around the house. Tightening loose railings on the back deck, fixing a squeaky door hinge, and replacing the weather stripping around the windows so that his heating bill won’t be astronomical. They’re just little things, but they add up. I’m determined to get his place in good shape so there’s nothing he’ll need to worry about after I leave.
Honestly, I think part of the reason my time with him hasn’t been too bad is because of Kat. Being around her relaxes me, puts me in a better mood, and I bring that with me when I visit Edward.
Our conversations are still awkward sometimes, still twisted up with years of confusion, distance, and resentment. But they’re getting easier. Yesterday, we actually talked for almost twenty minutes about Murphy’s weird habit of sitting in the bathroom sink, and it felt almost… normal. Almost like how a father and son might talk if they hadn’t spent years estranged from each other.
I step in front of the mirror that’s attached to the wall in the bedroom, frowning as I second-guess my outfit choice for the evening. I’ve got on a long-sleeved shirt made of soft fabric in a neutral cream color, but it looks too casual.
“Dammit,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand down my face.
I feel nervous in a way I can’t quite explain, which is ridiculous. It’s just a Christmas party. I’ve dealt with media interviews, contract negotiations, and playing high-stakes games in front of thousands of screaming fans. A party with Kat’s family and friends should be nothing.
But it doesn’t feel like nothing.
Still frowning at my reflection in the mirror, I grab my phone and text Kat.
ME: Okay, remind me what the dress code for this party is?
I wait, staring at the screen. Her response comes back quickly.
KAT: Dressy, but not too dressy.
I snort out loud.
ME: That’s not super helpful, bright eyes.
KAT: *crying emoji* I know!!! I can’t decide what to wear. I’ve tried on three different dresses, and I hate all of them.
I glance over toward the main cabin through the window. The bedroom is empty, but as I watch, a dress comes flying out of the en suite bathroom’s doorway, landing in a heap on herbed. A pang of awareness shoots through me, heat flooding my veins. She probably just took that dress off to put something else on, which means she’s in the bathroom right now in only her underwear.
I can’t help the sudden image that flashes through my mind of Kat standing in front of the mirror in her bra and panties, having rejected yet another dress option. I imagine the curve of her waist, the softness of her thighs, all that skin I’ve been trying really hard not to think about…
Pushing that thought aside forcefully, I stride over to the small closet and flip through the shirts I brought. I pull out a different one, dark blue and more formal, and hold it up against my chest. Then I put it back. I consider the first shirt again, the pale green one I already tried on and rejected.
This is getting ridiculous.
Rolling my eyes at myself, I text Kat back.
ME: How about this? In fifteen minutes, we’ll meet downstairs wearing whatever we’re wearing when the time is up. That forces the decision. No more second-guessing.
KAT: Deal. Although in that case, I probably won’t be wearing anything by the time you get here.
Another jolt of heat goes through me, stronger this time. I stare at the message for a second, my imagination immediately supplying a dozen thoughts I shouldn’t be having.
KAT: Kidding! Obviously kidding. I’ll be ready in fifteen. I can do it. I’ll make a decision and stick with it.
ME: I believe in you. You’ve got this.
I set my phone down, chuckling to myself despite the lingering heat in my veins, and stare hard at my closet for several long moments before I finally make a decision to err on the dressy side. Better to be overdressed than underdressed, right?
I pull out a charcoal suit that’s perfectly tailored, the kind of thing I wear to team events, before games, or at media appearances where I need to look professional and put-together. I brought it just in case there was some occasion that required it, and this seems like the right time to bust it out. If I’m meeting Kat’s grandmother for the first time at her big annual party, I should probably make a good impression.
I get dressed quickly, buttoning the shirt and taking my time with the tie, then pulling on the suit jacket and checking that everything sits right. Then I move closer to the mirror, leaning in a bit as I try to do something with my hair. It’s getting too long, shaggier than I usually keep it, but I haven’t had time to get a haircut. I run my hand through it a few times, trying to tame it into something that looks intentional rather than just messy.
When I’m done, I check the time. Exactly fifteen minutes have passed since I sent that text.
Game time.
