Chapter 8
Banner
After Sofia left to go home, I changed my outfit fourteen times, and now it looks like Fifth Avenue threw up all over my bedroom.
What do you wear when you’re trying to prove that you’re not cheap and easy despite your text messages while you were drunk the night before? I’m coming up blank. Six dresses, two pairs of jeans, four skirts, two jumpsuits (what was I thinking when I bought those, anyway?), and countless tanks, shirts, blouses, and sweaters lay strewn across every flat and not-so-flat surface in my bedroom.
Do I go casual? Sexy? Flirty? Boring?
Once again, I wish Greer were here so she could stage a fashion intervention.What would Greer wear?
My best friend is classy to the nth degree, so she’d probably go with one of the more conservative dresses. Or possibly a skirt-and-blouse combo.
But then again, I’m not Greer.
I look down at the dresses on my bed and close my eyes.
“Eeeny, meeny, miney, mo.” I reach out and grab a handful of fabric and decide that whatever it is, I’m going to wear it. I have approximately thirty minutes to finish getting ready, so I need to hurry my ass up.
I open my eyes and look down at what I picked.
A long-sleeved, olive-drab shirt dress with gold buttons and a matching belt. I pulled it out of my closet on a whim while picturing Logan in his uniform.
Do I really want to wearthat? It’s probably the least sexy of everything I’ve picked, but maybe that’s exactly why it’s perfect.
Because I’m not going to have sex with Logan Brantley.
I pull it on over plain black lingerie, not even the lacy kind, before straightening everything and tying the belt. I look ... conservative. It’s like the anti-Banner.
I tell myself unfastening the top button makes it look a little more Banner-ish, but still conservative. Not like when I unfastened the top three buttons while trying it on in the store so the neckline played peekaboo with my bra.
Classic gold accessories complete the look, and my hair is curled in waves down my back. I slip into my favorite knee-high black boots and pull on a black trench coat.
I look very New York.
My reflection hammers home the fact that the guy I’m meeting is the complete opposite of everything New York, which is exactly why I’m so freaking fascinated by him.
Except now I’m not sure I’m going to be able to look him in the eye after the downward spiral my texts took last night. With any other guy, sending flirty or downright dirty messages wouldn’t bother me. That’s who I am—the girl who isn’t afraid to say all those filthy things and follow through on them. But for some reason, what Logan thinks of me actually matters, and I don’t want him to put me in that category.
Then why did I do it?
Because I’m an idiot who shouldn’t be let near a bottle of vodka without adult supervision.
I’m not going for shock value here, which means I’m completely out of my depth. I’ve never wanted to impress someone by just being myself before.
For the love of God, I need to stop with the introspection.
I have to get out of my head, so I clean up my clothing disaster and make sure my bed is made.Why am I bothering? We aren’t sleeping together.Still, I take the time to look over everything again before glancing at the clock.
It’s go time.
* * *
Why did I pick this place? When I walk into the tapas bar, I question that decision and every other one I’ve made in my life since I got that first text message from Logan Brantley’s number. He isn’t a tapas kind of guy. He’s steak and potatoes andman food. Or even bar food. Anything but tapas.
I’m castigating myself for being an absolute moron and not thinking this through as I allow the hostess to lead me to a table in the front corner where I’ll have a view of the door. I check my phone and the time every thirty seconds.
When it vibrates, I freeze.