Since when does having a woman laugh at me so hard that she snorts turn me on? Is this some sort of new humiliation kink that I’ve just stumbled upon?
“What are you wearing?” Margot asks, still laughing.
Right, the disguise. I am dressed like a weird idiot while Margot is dressed like… that. This is off to a great start.
“I remembered what you said about already feeling comfortable around me, so I thought maybe a disguise might help, but it was a bad idea.”
I reach up to pull off the fake mustache, but Margot’s hand reaches for mine, stopping me. The physical contact sends a little electric buzz through me. Our eyes clash, and I can’t help but wonder if she felt it too.
“Leave it,” she says, smiling up at me. “I like this look on you.”
There’s no way that’s true. Not only am I wearing a ridiculous fake mustache, but also an unnecessary pair of black-framed glasses and a dorky gray button-up sweater.
Her hand drops away from mine, but her smile lingers. “It makes you less intimidating.”
“You think I’m intimidating?” I ask.
“On a date? Absolutely.”
Margot turns on her heel, giving me my first view of her ass in that dress, as she strides across the room to grab her purse. My throat goes dry, and my erection threatens to make itself obvious. This sort of thing does not happen to me. Ever. It must be the fact that I haven’t gotten laid in weeks.
And we’re not getting laid tonight either, I remind my dick.This isn’t real.
Taking a step into her mostly empty living room, I clear my throat and ask, “New dress?”
Margot lets out a small laugh, still distracted by gathering her phone and lipstick and putting them in her purse. “I only had one date dress, and it was inextricably tied to the memory of Jeremy and I breaking up. I figured it was time for something new.”
“It’s nice.”
This, of course, is an understatement.
She scrunches up her nose and tugs the bottom hem down while doing a little shimmy. “I’m not sure it’s really my style, but I didn’t have much time to shop.”
“Margot,” I say sternly, finally drawing her attention away from her handbag. “You look amazing.”
She blushes, tucking a strand of glossy dark hair behind her ear and glancing down at the beige carpet. “Thanks,” she says quietly.
“Ready to go?”
She nods and slides the strap of her bag onto her shoulder.
I take her to Beaumont’s, an upscale bar near my house. It’s far enough from the office that I doubt we’ll run into anyone we know. Fake or not, we don’t need people gossiping about seeing Margot and I together.
Beaumont’s is the perfect spot for a first date. The ambiance is sultry without feeling forced. Dark mahogany lines the walls and flickering candles cast a warm glow. Soft music drifts through the space, loud enough to fill the silence, but not enough to drown out conversation.
We take a seat on two tufted leather barstools beside the large copper bar top. Margot glances around the dimly lit room. Her eyes pause on a few women, as if she’s checking to make sure that she’s dressed appropriately. Everyone here is dressed up, but Margot still stands out in her red dress. I notice a few men glancing in her direction then quickly over at me, sizing me up before looking away to take another sip of their drinks.
She cleans up well. Clearly, that’s not part of her problem.
“This place is nice,” Margot says, still looking around, but completely oblivious to the attention any other men are giving her. Her gaze drops to the small cocktail menu in front of her, and her eyes flare wide. “… and expensive. Definitely no PBR on tap here,” she mutters with a mild laugh.
“Well, if you’re in the mood for PBR, there’s a biker bar on the east side of town.”
She scrunches up her nose dramatically. “I’m not really much of a beer drinker.”
She further illustrates this point by ordering a glass of Malbec when the bartender stops by. I order a whiskey and hand him my card before Margot gets any ideas about paying for herself. True to form, Margot starts digging in her massive bag of wonders for her own card to hand over as well.
“I got it,” I tell her.