"Dinner. Tonight. I'll pick the place," I whisper into her ear. "All you have to do is say yes."
She looks up at me, and for a moment I don't know how she's going to answer, or what's going through her mind. Finally she grins.
"Okay then," she says. "My answer is yes."
I smile.
This is going to be an interesting night.
Brittney
I look out my apartment window and see a black limo pull up to the curb. The limo's windows are deeply tinted, so I can't see who's inside, but I know it's Ethan Kane.
He's right on time.
I check myself for the last time in a full-length mirror turning around in a full circle to consider how this dress looks from all angles. I smooth the fabric with my hands.
Based on our last encounter where he nearly made my heart leap through my throat by sneaking up behind me—I wasn't expecting him to find me like that, but I guess I should've been more careful—I knew I needed to gain his trust and attention tonight.
I bought this dress specifically for tonight's dinner. The goal was to find a dress that would stop traffic. I don't want him to be able to take his eyes off of me.
On the tag for this dress, the color was listed as Russian Roulette Red.
I figured that's exactly the kind of high-octane stakes I'm faced with, and I bought it.
This was a good purchase, I say to myself, after coming to the conclusion that it's going to be a good fit. I'll admit that it fits me better than a glove.
It's an iconic cocktail dress—the kind of dress that hugs your every curve like a second skin. The neckline is built to plunge deeply between my breasts and is held up with a single halter-top that clasps with a gold buckle. My back is exposed, and the dress's hemline ends well before my knees.
I think this dress will do the trick tonight.
I've added an extra wave to my hair with a curling iron, and I carefully applied a smoky eye shadow with a healthy layer of mascara. And this look wouldn't be complete without a classic red lipstick, so I add that too at the last minute.
I hear another knock at the door, and I open it.
Standing outside is Ethan. He's wearing a suit that looks like something out of a James Bond movie. My god he's hot… so clean cut and … chiseled under that form-fitting suit.
"You look beautiful," he says, extending me his hand. He carefully walks me to street.
"I'd say you clean u
p nicely as well," I grin. Together we walk to the limo where his driver is holding a door open for us. We slide into the cold leather seats, and I scoot close to him, inhaling his masculinity.
"Where are we headed?" I ask.
"Are you ready for amazing views of the city?" he asks.
"I'm intrigued," I say. "And I do love a good view."
"Rockefeller Center," he replies. "We're going to the very top."
"You certainly have good taste," I purr, running my hand across his chest. I lean in and bring my lips to his, pressing against him softly—just enough to give him a taste—and I pull away. He gives me a devilish grin, but before he can say anything, the limo stops and the driver opens our door, ushering us out.
That was a quick ride. Time flies when you're with a hot man.
We walk into Rockefeller Center, and once we take an elevator up to the restaurant, I find myself with a world-class view of New York City. Thousands of lights glitter and dance across the landscape as if a diamond necklace has been draped across the skyline.
I don't care how many times I've seen this view. It never gets old.