Page 46 of Vallaverse: Twist
Chapter Twenty
Laz
Brooks is picking me up at seven. He said, “Be ready at seven. I'll pick you up at the door.” Which is completely ridiculous. This is his house. What is he going to do, walk out to the garage, get in the car, drive to the end of the driveway, and turn around so he can knock on the door to pick me up? His own door? It's ridiculous. I live here with him, in the same house. We could just leave together like logical people who do things that make sense. But no, he's picking me up at seven.
I don't even know what to wear. If it requires me to wear anything nicer than a sweater and slacks, I'm screwed. Kris kept me in high-end designer stuff. The clothes Brooks and Mrs. Richards have filled my drawers and closet with are high-end comfort. Except for the bottom drawer. The bottom drawer is reserved exclusively for the hand-me-downs from Mrs. Richards's son. I don't know where he is, but I do know that his mother hasn't seen him in years. She brought the box of things to me, freshly laundered, a few days after I got here and said Imight like some comfortable things to wear around the house. I can tell how happy it makes her to see her son's clothes being worn, so I'll keep wearing them.
I can't wear them tonight, though. Wherever Brooks is taking me will definitely need more than well-worn t-shirts and knee-less jeans. Actually, I could wear the jeans. I can make ragged jeans look gorgeous with the right... That's what I'll wear. The light-wash jeans with the knee worn through with the burgundy sweater with the snug fit. I saw a black blazer in the closet that won't be too heavy to wear with the sweater. The sweater is warm, the jeans are soft, and the jacket will keep me in dress code for any place Brooks wants to go.
And now I'm excited. I haven't put my own thought into dressing for an appointment—no, not an appointment. A date. I haven't put my own effort into getting ready for a date in a long time. Probably years. I get to wear my hair how I want. Kris made me keep it slicked back and controlled. She said it would appeal to an Alpha's territorial tendencies, like messing up my carefully combed hair would be like making me their own for a while. I didn't care back then because whatever weird quirks an Alpha might have were just a hurdle to jump to get what I wanted… what she wanted. And now none of it matters, and I don't even have to comb my hair if I don't want to. I do, though. I want to. I want to look good. For Brooks. I know I'm supposed to want to look good for myself, but he's the reason. He's the only reason.
My hair isn't exactly curly, but it isn't straight, either. And it has a mind of its own if I don't put a ton of product in it. Brooks likes to touch my hair. Every night when we're cuddled up together, he can't keep his fingers out of it. I know he likes my hair borderline messy. He always has. He says it's touchable, and that's right next to fuckable. I want to be fuckable for him. Not that I think he's going to try to fuck me tonight; we're bothwalking a razor's edge with that situation. But I want him to want to. So, tonight my hair will get a thorough wash and just enough product to keep it from frizzing.
The doorbell rings at exactly seven. As silly as it is, butterflies swarm my stomach as I make my way downstairs. It's so silly. This is his house. We both live here. But here I go, answering the door for him. So he can take me out on a date. Would this have been a regular occurrence if I hadn't left him? Some of the butterflies fizzle out as I come to the realization that, yeah, there would have probably been lots of date nights. There were plenty before I left. Granted, there were plenty of other not-so-domestic things happening in the background with Brooks's—and mine—but we went on dates.
We went to dinner. And movies. And trips.
I was such an idiot, and look where it got me.
Not now, I tell myself, trying to shake off the guilt and regret that killed half my butterflies. He's taking me out tonight. That's what matters. I'm okay and getting more okay every day. Brooks is okay, too. We're going to be alright.
Brooks grins at me when I open the door. “Let's get you in the car before I change my mind about the plans for the evening.”
I blush. So help me, heat creeps up from my chest and over my cheeks.
“Well, that's just going to make it more tempting,” he purrs as I pass him on the way to the car.
I thought we'd be going somewhere in the little town nearby, but Brooks gets on the main highway instead. After about half an hour of driving, curiosity gets the best of me.
“So, how much longer till we get there?”
He glances over at me, smiling. “Not long.”
“Where are we going?”
He smiles harder. “To dinner.”
“Tease,” I say. “Give me a hint.”
He chuckles and puts on the turn signal. “You made the right outfit choice.”
“That's not a hint,” I argue, but I'm smiling, too.
“We're almost there,” he says. “Surely you can be patient for a few more minutes?”
“Surely,” I say, mocking his oh-so-refined tone.
He just laughs and turns down a gravel road.
“Nice restaurants aren't located on dirt roads, Brooks.”
He laughs again and keeps driving.
I understand once the building comes into view.
I've heard of the Red Stag Vineyard, but I've never had the opportunity to come here. More than a few clients spun stories of stealing me away for a getaway, and this place was mentioned on several occasions. Brooks is right; I did choose the right outfit.
It's as crowded as any place like this ever is mid-week, which is good for me. I'm doing fine at home and on the small excursions Mrs. Richards and I go on during the week, but I'm still very nervous. Especially in crowds where there are too many scents and too many opportunities for people to touch me.
