Page 25 of Snowed In
“There is, but they’re not fun.” She sighs, leaving me for approximately five seconds before returning with a modest green dress in her hands. “Here,” she says. “Ankle boots. Your black coat. It’s a classic.”
“You’re sure?” I ask, even though I’m already pulling the thing on.
“Very sure. Maybe heels?”
“I don’t know how much walking we’re going to be—” I break off as the buzzer goes. “That must be him.”
“You think?”
“Who else would it be?”
“But he’s early,” Frankie says, as the buzzer goes again. “He’s also impatient,” she adds, following me into the kitchen. I press the button to let him in and pull the heels on, unusually nervous.
“I’m not ready yet.”
“So make him wait.”
“That’s rude.”
“That’s power. But you’re ready. Just put your hair down. Maybe muss it up a little,” she adds, doing just that until I bat her hands away.
“I thought you were going to the library.”
“I am,” she says. “I just want to see—”
A knock on the door.
“—what all the fuss is about.”
“There’s no fuss.”
“But there’s fluster,” she says, perching on a stool. “You’re flustered.”
I give her a look, silently telling her to behave and undo the lock.
I spent all weekend pretending I wasn’t thinking about Friday night. All weekend thinking about what he said. And thinking led to imagining which led to full-on fantasizing about all the things he’d proposed. About arriving home with someone like him on my arm. About not feeling alone during the loneliest time of the year.
I’d meant what I said on the phone. I’m not looking for a relationship. Not a serious one, anyway. But even still when I open the door, caution tinging my every move, I can’t deny my reaction to the man. The way my mood lifts at the mere sight of him.
Christian just smiles like this is something we’ve done a hundred times before, and okay, as pretend boyfriends go, I could do a lot worse.
He’s wearing that nice coat again and smells incredible, his cologne earthy and spicy and expensive, and I kind of just stand there sniffing it for a second before I realize what I’m doing.
“You’re early,” I say, and he raises a brow.
“I said seven. It’s seven.”
“That’s early.”
“It’s literally not.”
“No one comes when they say they’re—”
“Let the man inside, Megan,” Frankie calls, and I step back, letting him past.
“This is my roommate, Frankie. Frankie, this is Christian.”
Christian nods a hello while Frankie just stares, unabashedly taking him in from the top of his head to the tips of his toes before turning to me.
