I'm a total romantic. Flowers, chocolates, kissing in the rain—bring on the clichés! I pretty much spend all of December watching those made for TV movies about Christmas. The cheesier, the better.
"Wait, he's picking you up?" Bridget yells from her room. "What does that even mean?"
We've both spent the past hour speaking through the wall, comparing and contrasting outfits while we ready ourselves for our dates. I've settled on a curve-hugging midnight blue dress, obviously stolen from Bridget's closet, and even broke out my old push-up bra for the occasion. And the ladies look fantastic, if I do say so myself.
"I don't know," I shout while staring into the mirror. Do I like these pearl earrings? Or how about these gold ones? Though silver makes the grayish blue in my eyes stand out… "He just said to text him my address and he'd come pick me up at eight."
"Like, in a car?" Bridget is really stuck on this idea. "Or in a cab? Or are you walking? I just, I've never even heard of someone picking someone up for a first date in this city."
"I think it's sort of sweet," I say.
"Well, however he's picking you up, he'll be here any minute."
Crap!
I jerk away from the mirror, deciding on the silver earrings, and take a step back, pulling my dress down to smooth out the wrinkles, doing a little twirl, you know, surveying. According to Skylar standards, I went all out tonight. Wedges—the closest thing to heels that I can safely manage. Full makeup covering the spatter of freckles that span my cream cheeks. A little pouf in my hardly ever styled hair.
I look good.
"You look hot," Bridget says, echoing my thoughts as she peeks her head through the door. "How about me?"
"Gorgeous!" And I mean it. Soft curls lighten her thick red hair. The evergreen skinny jeans look fantastic against her natural coloring, especially paired with that black sparkly top. And next time, I need to borrow whatever eyeliner she's wearing because her eyes pop—in a good way!
The phone on my desk vibrates.
I freeze as nerves surge up my spine.
He's here.
Suddenly I can't breathe. My eyes go wide.
"Uh, Skye?" Bridge says.
I shake my head. I can't speak. My voice has run away. It's in hiding.
He's here.
Oh my god, what was I thinking saying yes! He's so far out of my league it's laughable. So attractive. So good-looking. So going to break my heart.
"Skye!" Bridge runs over and grabs my shoulder. "Stop freaking out."
"I'm not freaking out," I squeak. My hands are shaking. I might be hyperventilating. Is the room starting to spin?
"Come on," Bridget nudges, grabbing my purse before taking my hands and tugging me from my room. I think she's going to let go when we make it into the living room, but she doesn't. She just keeps pulling me past our kitchen and right to the front door.
"Bridge, really, it's okay," I protest, but she just shakes her head, letting one hand go to open the apartment door.
"As if I'll believe you. The last time I saw you this nervous was junior year in high school when Chris asked you on a date. You told me you didn’t need me to come over and help you get ready, then I find out from everyone later that night that you totally bailed on him. Well, if this guy is so chivalrous that he's picking you up outside of our apartment, no way am I letting you blow it by hiding in the emergency staircase or something ridiculous like that until he gives up and leaves."
"I wouldn't hide in the staircase…" Though I admit, now that she said it, the idea doesn't sound half bad.
Ignoring me, she continues to yank on my arm, practically pulling it out of its socket—which when you think about it really wouldn’t be the ideal way to start my date. But a few minutes later, I'm in the elevator, purse in hand, watching in horror as the doors close, leaving me by myself.
"Bridge!" I shout, banging on the metal just as it seals shut.
How could she leave me like this?
I swallow. Heat rises under my skin. Suffocating. The walls start to close in. I watch as the numbers click lower and lower, butterflies zipping around my stomach. And not in that cute anticipating way, but in this painful, terror inducing way. And then suddenly, I visualize my escape—the perfect excuse for retreat.
My jacket!
I forgot my jacket! I have to go back. I have to!
Futilely, I press on the button for my floor over and over again, but the number won't light up. I've got a one-way ticket—down. And a few seconds later, the elevator stops. I'm just going to stay here and go back up. Just stay and go back up, and get my jacket, and then hide in my room until I can forget this night ever happened.
The door cracks open and I want to close my eyes.
But he's there. Patrick. Almost the same as when I last saw him, but this time, a perfect red rose rests in his hand. When our eyes meet, all of my nerves melt away, vanish in a split second. Instead, I feel warm and tingly all over, excitement tangible, an energy that crackles the air around me.
"Skylar," he says.
I shiver. My name has never sounded so good.
"Patrick," I sigh.
Then the elevator door starts to close, because I, like a star-struck idiot, forgot to get off. I reach out to catch it, but Patrick beats me, stopping the metal with his hand and pushing it back.
"For you," he says, and hands me the rose.
And even though I know this could easily be some move he does with every girl, a carefully crafted gesture to put me right where he wants me, I can't help it. I accept, bringing the flower to my nose and sniffing gently as a shy smile curves my lips.
He grabs my hand, easily taking charge in a way I'm not used to. John and I were dating for months before he finally felt comfortable enough to hold my hand, but Patrick does it effortlessly, a little too smoothly. But I don't care, because his hand is warm and where our fingers touch, a little fire ignites beneath my skin.
Oh yeah, this is bad. Two seconds into the date and I can already feel myself falling, hard. But if he's playing a game, then I'm pretty much guaranteed to lose, so I might as well enjoy it while I can.
"I have a car waiting outside," he says, making for the door.
"A car?" I ask, sort of giggling.
"Well, if I work on weekends the company pays for a car service back to my apartment, so I figured I would take advantage tonight." He looks back at me and grins. I melt a little more.
Definitely bad…but in the best way possible.
True to his word, waiting outside is a black town car. I sort of feel like a celebrity when he jumps ahead and opens the door for me, letting me scoot in first. The seats are soft leather and there's a divider halfway up giving us privacy. I've never felt quite so fancy before. I mean, I grew up in Pennsylvania just a few miles east of farm country. We didn't exactly take limos around. I'm about to comment when I remember that Patrick, born and raised on the Upper East Side, probably did.
I close my mouth, biting my lip. We're definitely from different worlds, but tonight I get to be Cinderella—and I don't want to ruin the magic before it really even begins.
"So, where are we going?" I ask as the car eases away from the curb. I've crossed my hands on my lap, unsure of where to put them. Patrick stretches his arm over the back of my seat, and I'm hyper aware of the inch between our skin.