SAPPHIRE
Not everything has worked in my favor today.
Rush-hour traffic was a nightmare, and I ended up jumping out of my cab several blocks from Coral’s boutique, so now I’m rushing down the sidewalk, desperate to find a dress.
Tick tock. The time is pushing on, and if I don’t find anything in the next couple of hours, then I’ll be forced to wear something I won’t feel right in. I continue down the sidewalk, enjoying the slightly cooler air bellowing around the hem of my dress when I spot someone who looks familiar walking toward me, a suit bag in one hand, his phone in the other, his attention glued to it.
“Eli.”
His head snaps up, his sunglass-covered eyes covering half of his face. In a moment of weakness, he smiles. Not just a mediocre one, but a full-blown, takes-your-breath-away smile. And while I have never been into suits, the one he’s wearing today is really doing something to me. Specifically, to the area between my thighs as heat grows there.
Wow. The visceral reaction my body has to him confuses me, but I can’t say I’m mad about it.
As if realizing he’s smiling, it disappears as fast as it appeared, and I almost want to tell him it’s okay to be happy to see me, but I don’t.
“What are you doing in this part of town?” I ask.
“Picking up my tuxedo for tomorrow.” He holds the suit in the air by the hook of the hanger that’s peeking out of the hole at the top, stuffing his phone into the pocket of his dress pants. “It’s my last errand to do before the big day.” His eyebrows lift from behind his sunglasses on his last two words. I get the impression he’s not a lover of weddings. He’s not a lover of much.
Today he looks like he belongs in an aftershave commercial. Specifically, the one with David Gandy wearing nothing but his tighty whiteys. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before, and now that I do, I can’t unsee it. It amuses me that Eli is utterly unaware of women side-eyeing him as they pass by, checking him out not once, but twice. Yep, he’s very, very easy on the eyes. Scrumptious and a head turner.
“So, you’re finished for the day?” I play coy, but I’m already formulating a plan.
“Yes.”
“Great.” I step toward him and loop my arm around his that he’s not using to hold his suit, spinning him around in the direction he just came from. “I need some help.”
“What? No. I need to go,” he protests.
“You just said you didn’t have anything left to do.” I start walking and squeeze his arm tighter, gripping onto him, encouraging him to follow me. “And I could really do with a man’s opinion.”
“On what?” He’s a step behind me, and I swear I am almost dragging him, pulling him along the sidewalk.
Kidnapping him more like, but semantics.
“A dress for tomorrow.”
He tugs on my arm to stop me from taking another step.
“I can’t help you with that.”
“Of course you can. You know the type of wedding it is, who will be there, and the event’s tone. The vibe.” I look down at my outfit. “For example, I can’t wear what I have on right now. This is a test, Eli, so be careful what you say.” I waggle my finger at him.
Today I’m wearing a navy dress adorned with a playful print of tropical leaves and flowers, featuring an embroidered golden hem that catches the sunlight.
Letting go of his arm, I stop and stand back for him to get a better idea of my outfit and I do a little pose.
He pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head, really committing to the test. “I like your dress and your shoes.”
“This dress is one of my favorites, and you like my espadrilles?” I lift one foot in the air like a flamingo.
“Your espa-what?” he splutters, confusion lining his brow.
“Es-pa-drilles,” I repeat slowly. “I can’t wear these to a wedding. I need delicate heels and a dress that wasn’t bought five years ago. You failed the test, Eli.”
He drags his hand down his face. “Fuck my life,” he mutters. “You’re exhausting.”
Lifting my hands up in surrender, I say, “Okay, well, if you’re not up to the task, I’ll go ask that guy over there to help me find a dress; he can assist with the zippers and tricky buttons. Although I’m not wearing a bra, so that might be awkward.” I don’t know why I say that, but I do, and I point to a stranger, a broad-looking guy with a man bun who, in the past, used to be my usual go-to type, but somehow his mismatched shorts and worn T-shirt don’t do it for me anymore. I’m more of a suit girl now, it seems.