Promised
Page 53

I’m standing in my towel in front of my wardrobe, running my eyes over each of my new outfits.
‘It has to be the black one.’ Gregory skates his hand down the short tight dress on a sigh. ‘Yes, this one and the black pointed stilettos.’
I feel a little overwhelmed as I look at the dress, then down to the shoes. It’s been a long, long while since I’ve worn heels. ‘I’m scared,’ I murmur quietly.
‘Rubbish!’ He dismisses my worry on a snort and heads for the bed, picking up some of the fancy underwear he forced me to buy. We both wasted at least twenty minutes in La Senza arguing over the lacy matching sets, one of which he’s currently having a thorough inspection of. He’s right, though. I can’t wear white cotton under these sorts of dresses. ‘You know, I might be eighty per cent g*y, but there’s something about a woman in sexy underwear.’ He chucks the set at me. ‘Put them on, then.’
I keep my mouth shut for fear of objecting and shimmy into the knickers while deftly holding my towel in place. The bra’s not so straightforward, and I end up turning away from Gregory, who doesn’t seem in the least bit perturbed by the potential of copping a load of my nakedness.
He starts laughing as he watches me battling with the bra, and I grumble to myself, not amused by his amusement as I arrange my poor excuse of a chest into the cups. I look down, surprised to see something close to a cle**age.
‘See,’ Gregory says, grabbing the towel and whipping it away. ‘Push-up bras are the best things ever invented.’
‘Gregory!’ I cross my arms over my chest, feeling shy and exposed, as he moves to stand in front of me.
His eyes are slightly bugged as he drags them down my petite frame. ‘Fucking hell, Livy!’
‘Stop it!’ I attempt in vain to steal the towel back, but he’s having none of it. ‘Give me it!’
‘You look steaming.’ His mouth is open, his eyes wide.
‘You’re supposed to be g*y!’
‘I still appreciate a woman’s form, and you’ve got form, baby girl.’ He throws the towel on the bed. ‘If you can’t stand in front of me in your underwear, then who can you?’
‘I’m going on a date, nothing more.’ I escape Gregory’s appreciative stare and grab my hair dryer. ‘Will you stop looking at me?’
‘Sorry.’ He seems to shake himself back to life before plugging in some hair-styling device: straighteners, I think. ‘What are you going to drink?’
The question catches me off guard. I’ve not thought that far ahead. Accepting a date, getting ready for the date, and getting myself to the date has been enough for me to get my head around. What I’m going to drink and talk about while I’m actually on the date hasn’t entered my head. ‘Water!’ I shout over the roar of my hair dryer.
He recoils, a disgusted look all over his face. ‘You can’t go on a date and drink water!’
I’m scowling across the room at him, not that he’s bothered. ‘I don’t need alcohol.’
His shoulders drop dramatically, as does his arse to my bed. ‘Livy, have a glass of wine.’
‘Listen, the fact that I’m going out with a man should be enough, so don’t start pressing me on drinking.’ I flip my head upside down and blast my blond everywhere. ‘Baby steps, Gregory,’ I add, thinking that I need to keep my wits about me, and alcohol won’t help me do that. But I didn’t need alcohol in the equation to make me lose my mind in the company of Miller Ha—
I throw my head back up in the hope of physically tossing the thought from my mind. It works, but it has nothing to do with head tossing and everything to do with Gregory gawking at me. ‘Sorry!’ he blurts, immediately busying himself with unpacking my shoes.
I drop my dryer and look dubiously at the straighteners that are steaming on a heat mat on the carpet. They look dangerous. ‘I think I might leave my hair.’
‘Oh no,’ he pouts. ‘I’ve always wanted to see your hair straight and sleek.’
‘He won’t recognise me,’ I complain. ‘You’re sticking me in that dress and these heels, and now you want to iron my hair, too.’ I start rubbing some E45 into my face. ‘He asked me on a date, not the polished thing that you’re trying to create.’
‘You wouldn’t be a polished thing,’ he objects. ‘You’d be you, just enhanced. I think you should surrender all decisions to me.’ He stands and fetches the dress, taking it off the hanger.
‘How do you know what a man wants from a woman?’
‘I’ve gone out with women.’
‘Not for over two years,’ I point out, remembering each and every time that he has, and it was always after a break-up with a guy.
He shrugs nonchalantly and holds the dress up. ‘How did this become about me?’ he asks. ‘Shut up and slip that neat little body into this delightful dress.’ He jiggles his eyebrows cheekily, and I reluctantly drag myself over to him, letting him put the dress over my head and down my body. ‘There.’ He steps back and gives me the once-over while I slip my feet into the painfully high shoes.
I look down at myself, seeing the black dress clinging to every curve that I don’t have and my feet at a stupidly high angle. I feel unsteady. ‘I’m not sure,’ I say, feeling far too overdressed. When Gregory doesn’t respond to my wavering, I look up, seeing a dumbstruck face. ‘Do I look stupid?’
He snaps his gaping mouth shut and seems to mentally slap himself. ‘Er . . . no . . . I . . . He starts laughing. ‘Fucking hell, I have a hard-on.’
I huff, flaming red instantly. ‘Gregory!’
‘I’m sorry!’ He starts adjusting his groin, prompting me to swing around to escape the view, which subsequently prompts me to stagger in the stupid heels. I hear Gregory gasp. ‘Livy!’
‘Shit!’ I go over on my ankle, losing a shoe, then proceed to hop around like a demented kangaroo. ‘Shit, that hurt!’
‘Oh God!’ Gregory is clearly in pieces behind me, the bastard. ‘Are you okay?’
‘No!’ I snap, kicking the other shoe off. ‘I’m not wearing them!’
‘Oh, don’t be like that. I’ll control myself.’
‘You’re bloody g*y!’ I yell, picking up a shoe and waving it around above my head. ‘I can’t walk in these.’
‘You’ve hardly tried!’
‘You put them on and tell me how easy it is.’ I chuck the shoe at him, and he laughs as he catches it.
‘Livy, that would make me a drag queen.’
‘Be a drag queen, then!’
Gregory loses control altogether and collapses on my bed in a helpless fit of laughter. ‘You’re making me cry!’
‘Bastard,’ I spit, yanking the dress off. ‘Where are my Converse?’
‘You can’t.’ He dives up, immediately noticing that the dress has been ditched, as well as the shoes. ‘Oh no! You looked fabulous.’ His eyes run down my semi-nakedness.
‘Yes, but I couldn’t walk,’ I mutter, stomping over to my wardrobe. This irritation is a good enough reason alone to maintain my boring lifestyle. I’ve been bombarded with new situations recently, and for the most part I’ve mainly felt angry, pissed off, or useless throughout. Why the hell am I doing this to myself?