On today's wedding planning agenda: a tasting at the caterer. With Dean. No big deal, right? We're just two ordinary people who will be enjoying a meal at the same table in a private room at a swanky restaurant.

Totally platonic. Completely innocent.

Though it's a lot less innocent when you factor in that Dean's eaten me.

Peyton sets the curling iron down on my dresser, switching off the power. I watch her through the mirror as she mists my hair with hairspray, fluffing it and combing through with her fingers to separate the waves. Somehow, my hair always turns out better when someone else styles it.

I may have also needed the counseling. Er, company.

"Breathe, Brooke." She prompts me with her hand, instructing like a yoga teacher. "Inhale... exhale..."

"I am breathing." Sort of. Enough to remain conscious, anyway.

It's hard to tell whether the speedy feeling coursing through my veins is excitement or fear or a perverse mix of both. If I'm being honest with myself, I might be looking forward to seeing Dean. Spending time with him gives me a little thrill; it always has.

Her eyebrows lift beneath her black-brown bangs. "You're acting you're about to attend a funeral instead of a fancy dinner."

Alarm crashes over me and I glance down at my black fit-and-flare dress, smoothing the skirt. "Is the black a bad choice? Should I go change? You're right, I should find something more colorful. Pink, maybe, or turquoise." I've never second-guessed an outfit so much in my entire life. It'a a little black dress. How can you go wrong?

Peyton's mouth tugs a wry smile. "No, the dress is perfect. Dean's jaw is going to be on the floor. I meant, you seem tense. It's okay if you have fun tonight, you know. Even if the circumstances for Brendan and Vidya are kind of shitty."

"Dean and I have a little too much fun together," I tell her. "That's the whole problem."

"You're not hurting anybody."

"Not yet."

Her magenta lips twist like she wants to say something, but thinks better of it. She turns and yanks open my closet instead, kneeling down and beginning to sift through its contents. "Which shoes are you going to wear?"

"I'm not sure." I peek over her shoulder, trying to spot matching pairs in the sea of heels strewn across the carpet. "Maybe those black Stuart Weitzman pumps?"

"They're cute." Peyton pulls out a pair of patent leather heels, setting them aside. "But these are the real winners." Her gaze lands on a pair of black heels with satin ribbon ankle ties. She grabs them and holds them up, studying them admiringly. One of my favorite pairs, but I wasn't sure if they were the right choice. My ex once called them 'man repellent'.

"Travis hated those. He said they reminded him of bondage gear."

"Travis is a dumbass," Peyton retorts. "And isn't that the point? Besides, Dean has good taste. He'll appreciate these heels. They're fuck-me shoes."

I groan, resisting the urge to run a hand down my face because I know it would ruin my makeup. "Isn't that what I'm trying to avoid?"

She laughs and stands back up, shoving the shoes into my arms. "I don't know, is it? You don't seem to know what you want."

What I want is to avoid getting hurt, but it may already be too late for that. My body wrote checks my heart can't cash.

"Fine. I'll wear the shoes, but I'm not going to sleep with him."

I don't think.

Perching on the edge of the bed, I slip into the left shoe and wind the ribbons around my ankles several times before carefully them into a bow. Then I repeat the same process on the right, admiring the results. Peyton was right; they are fuck-me heels.

"Going somewhere after this?" I ask. She always looks pulled together, but right now she looks practically airbrushed. Her outfit is still casual though, distressed torn jeans and black tee.

"Movie night with Jason." Her forehead crinkles. "I'm not sure if we're actually going to be watching the movie. His invitation was unclear, so I prepared for all possible scenarios."

"That's what, the third time you've seen him?"

"Fifth."

"Getting serious?"

She shrugs. "I'm still vetting him."

Peyton's theory is that you shouldn't 'date' guys, you should 'vet' them like you're conducting some kind of boyfriend interview process. The difference being, she claims, that vetting means you keep an emotional distance until after you determine they're worth it. Almost none of them hurdle that bar.

It seems like a good idea in theory, though not something I've ever successfully implemented myself. I tend to feel first, think later. Hence my current predicament.

She stands in front of my dresser, humming to herself while she touches up her already flawless makeup. Meanwhile, I set up my Canon T6i camera and ring light and snap a few full-length photos of my outfit from various angles. Then I take a few more close-ups of my makeup for good measure. I've gone with a pewter eye and glossy lips, though I have concerns about my lipgloss ending up all over Dean's face again like it did on New Year's.

At any rate, it's not often that I get this done up and there's no sense in letting it go to waste. It makes for great social media content.

Peyton finished applying her dark pink lipstick, rubbing her lips together to distribute it. She turns to face me and takes the camera from my hands, scrolling through the photos I just took. "The first and third ones are the best."

"I think so too."

My phone buzzes on the couch, notifying me of a new a text. Panic blooms in my chest, crawling up into my throat. I'm certain it's Dean canceling on tonight.

Brendan: Thanks again for helping with the appointment tonight. Just picking up dinner for Vidya and heading home now. I owe you.

Brooke: You do so much for me, don't mention it.

Okay, maybe I overreacted a little.

Swiping to exit the text thread, I navigate to Instagram while composing a caption in my head. Social media is the highlight reel, which means it there's room to play with the words a bit. 'Girls night out'? My dress is flirty, but it doesn't fit what I would wear for a night out on the town with friends. 'Date night'? Maybe... I mean, I know this isn't a real date, but that doesn't mean the internet has to. Date night it is.

Hopefully Dean doesn't follow me on social media. Though based on my unsuccessful attempts to stalk him online, I'm pretty sure he never uses it.

Except for dating sites, apparently.

A queasy feeling begins to rise up in stomach and I shove it down, banishing the knowledge to the furthest corners of my mind. I didn't allow myself to investigate the dating profile discovery. In a way, I don't really want to know. I'm just going to try to keep my hands to myself from here on out and hope for the best.

Because the thing is, I know Dean attracted to me. But beneath that... deep down, I'm still sixteen years old inside and I want him to like me. And I hate that.

After I hit post, I do a quick scroll through my feed and have the unfortunate luck of stumbling across an advertisement for a swimwear company featuring one of my least favorite people: Jade. I have her profile blocked, but I guess that doesn't stop other companies from showing her traitorous face all over their advertisements.

I gnaw on a hangnail for a moment, shooting daggers at the screen when my eyes.

"What?" Peyton comes out of the bathroom and stands beside me. She peeks at my phone, huffing a sound of disgust. "Oh, ugh."

"Ugh is right." Jade is still boasting 7-digit followers, too. No justice in this world.

"You should share a picture with Dean to rub it in her face. She loves his type."

It's tempting. Dean makes Travis look like a toad in comparison, too. I know toads aren't tall like Travis, but the comparison still applies.

Half an hour later, Peyton leaves for Jason's and we exchange promises to text later with updates. Though if I don't receive one from her, I'll know to read between those lines.

Doing a quick sweep of my apartment, I gather up a few stray dirty dishes and grab a grungy old college hoodie off the couch. Then I grab the continuing education brochures I picked up the other day, cramming them into a kitchen drawer. I'm still undecided about the school thing. Jason wants to set me up with a microphone test at the studio, though, so I'd better make my mind up quick.

Vidya's once-immaculate wedding planning binder sits on my glass coffee table in a state of utter disarray, loose leaf sheets covered in my handwriting wedged between every other page. It's gone from perfectly organized to a perfect disaster in less than a week. To be fair, I know where to find things even if it looks a little chaotic. I didn't want to write on her copies, and I wanted to make sure I didn't forget anything.

Let's face it, I probably am still forgetting things. Multiple things, most likely. I guess that's what Dean is for; he might be an uptight pain in the ass, but he's uber-organized and a hawk for details. Left to my own devices, I would probably drop the ball on something important—like the minister. Nothing will slip through the cracks on his watch.

I check the time on my phone again. 49 minutes until he arrives to pick me up. 2 minutes less than the last time I checked. Not that I'm obsessing or anything.

Wandering back into my bedroom, I check my makeup for the twentieth time in the full-length mirror, still undecided whether peach lipgloss was the right way to go over nude. Then I frown at my reflection and straighten my black dress. Maybe I should put on pants instead. A dress is probably better for the restaurant, but it's also more date-like. And this isn't a date.

My jitters have reached the point where I have half a mind to pour a drink to take the edge off. But I shouldn't be lowering my inhibitions, I should be fortifying them. Building them up brick by brick, nailing plywood over the windows and doors to my heart like preparing for an oncoming emotional hurricane.

Maybe I should see if Amazon Prime sells chastity belts. With one-hour local delivery, I'd almost make the window.

***

Forty minutes of nervous pacing later, Dean is standing at my front door. He's nine minutes early, not that I should be surprised. And once again, he strongly objected to my suggestion that he wait in his car out front and text me when he arrived.

Fumbling slightly with the deadbolt, I fling open the door and try to act normal, offering him what I hope is a smile. "Hi."

The non-date standing in front of me looks so good that, for a nanosecond, I wish the 'non' part wasn't there. His charcoal grey dress pants are perfectly pressed, as always. And his tailored white dress shirt showcases his broad shoulders, which I now know are even more impressive unclothed.

He's even had the audacity to roll up the sleeves, exposing his muscular forearms. It's like he's trying to play dirty.

Not a date. Note a date. Not a date.

Though it's not lost on me that his face brightens when our eyes meet.

His lips tip into a devastating grin. "Ready to go?"

"Sure am." My mouth tugs into an involuntary, nervous smile in return. "I'm starving."

"Me too." Dean's eyes darken as his heated gaze rakes over my body before lifting to my face, where it lingers on my lips for a second. "You look beautiful."

Suddenly, I feel naked fully clothed, and I wonder if he can see past that into the way I feel inside. Heat blossoms across my cheeks and I turn away, grabbing my silver clutch and black cardigan, praying to the patron saint of willpower.

"Thank you." I lock the door behind me and we head down hall toward the elevator.

With my heart sprinting in my chest, I can barely navigate a straight line in my 4-inch heels. Dean saunters among beside me, perfectly at ease. It probably helps that he used to live here with Brendan, years back. He's practically still on home turf.

As we stand in front of the elevator, some of the tension in my body begins to dissipate. Normally I would feel compelled to fill the silence with chatter, but there's an ease to just being with him.

After a brief wait, an empty elevator car greets us. Dean places a hand along my lower back as we enter. Immediately, my thoughts rocket back to the last time we were in this elevator together, when his hand was traveling up my shirt and...

Stop it, Brooke. You're supposed to be helping with the wedding. Focus.

Our arms brush and I swallow, trying to quell my fantasies of Dean pushing me up against one of the walls. Any of the walls, really; I'm not picky.

"Vidya tells me that the caterer is a little difficult," I say.

He turns to look at me, quirking a dark brow. "Difficult? How so?"

"Apparently, the online reviews say the food is out of this world, but the owner is 'eccentric'." I shrug. "I get the impression eccentric is code word for a nightmare. Vidya is pretty easygoing. The fact that she felt the need to warn us worries me."

A lot about planning this wedding worries me, including but not limited to the responsibility, potential to screw it up, and likelihood to disappoint.

"It'll be fine." Dean waves off my concern, calm and collected as always.

I wonder what it would take to actually faze him, or whether he worries about anything at all. Outwardly, it doesn't seem like it. Why would he? He was born into an affluent family, has the body of an athlete god, and all of his business ventures turn into gold. Oh, and women throw themselves at his feet constantly.

"I hope so."

"Come on, Lululemon. We get a fancy meal out of this. Try to pretend like you're enjoying yourself at least." He nudges me with his elbow playfully, and the physical contact makes my heart flutter.

"But the company..." I trail off, pretending to grimace.

"Is what you've always dreamed of?" Dean smirks. "Thought so."

"You wish."

He chuckles but says nothing. He doesn't need to, the lie is all over my face.

The elevator doors pop open and we file out into the lobby. Dean pulls the glass lobby door open, holding it for me as we exit into the parking lot. I resist the urge to peek to see whether he's gotten the damage from my fender-bender fixed yet. My money's on yes. Based on how upset he was over the, quote, 'horrific defacement of his most prized possession', I'm surprised he hadn't take it to the body shop the same day.

I mean, seriously. It's a car.

Dean opens the passenger side door for me first and lets me slide in before he closes it, walking around to the driver's side. I'm struck by the propriety of it every single time—I can count the number of times any other guy has done that for me.

As soon as the door shuts, I'm surrounded by buttery soft leather mingled with the scent of fresh mint and his intoxicating cologne. I cross my legs, buckling my seatbelt, and try to ignore the fact that my vital signs are careening wildly out of control. Forget wine, the way Dean's car smells will obliterate my willpower before we even get to that.

He revs the engine and places a hand on the back of my headrest, shoulder checking as he reverses the vehicle. Somehow, the mere act of him backing out is hot. Why is it so hot? It's like competency porn.

Should have bought the chastity belt when I had a chance.

I know I always say this about music, but this song really is meant for this chapter—story, even. It's been on my On Tilt playlist forever.

Now it's Dean's POV next!