Not About Love

Chapter Eight

I looked pretty. At least, I thought I looked pretty. Julianne had towed me up and down Old Town Pasadena's Colorado Boulevard in search of the perfect dress. After about the seventh store, she declared this one to be the winner, then started going on about shoes and accessories.

The dress was a pale, pale green, reminding me of spring. Thin straps criss-crossed my back, leaving it mostly bare to just below my shoulder blades. The bodice was fitted, the skirt flaring out at the waist, stopping several inches above my knees.

I had to draw the line at new shoes, which was hard. It was particularly difficult walking away from the snazzy red sandals Jules wanted me to buy. But I had a budget to think about, and shoes weren't a part of it. I opted for a pair of sandals I already owned, the ice-pick thin heels adding about four inches to my height. I didn't worry about being too tall - Braden was well over six feet. Besides, they made my legs look good.

Butterflies sprang to life in my stomach, and I pressed a trembling hand against it. Why was I nervous? It was only Braden. We'd hung out before. This wouldn't be any different. And I'd been on dates. I knew what I was doing.

Who was I kidding? I had no idea what I was doing.

There was a knock on the door, and I almost jumped out of my skin. It had to be him. I smoothed down my hair, grabbed my sweater, and walked out to answer it, the heels of my shoes clicking sharply over the floor.

The butterflies settled momentarily as Braden took in my outfit. His eyes went wide as they traveled down to my feet and back up again, his lips spreading in a slow smile of pure masculine appreciation. "Have I ever told you," he said conversationally, holding out a hand to me, "how much I love your legs, and the shoes you wear? I think you're on to something. All women with killer legs should be legally required to wear short skirts and mile high heels. Men everywhere will agree with me."

It was so silly, so completely Braden. I relaxed immediately and snorted out a laugh. "If you went around saying that to every woman with great legs, you'd probably be in the hospital with a lot of broken bones given to you by boyfriends and husbands who didn't appreciate you leering."

"No, I wouldn't. I would point out how lucky they were, and they'd agree with me, and then we'd stand around commiserating while the woman looked annoyed. Much like you do a lot of the time." He opened the car door, waiting until I was inside before he shut it and walked around and got in behind the wheel. I slipped on my sunglasses and did my best to ignore the nerves dancing back to life as he pulled away from the curb.

The early evening sun glowed brilliant on the horizon as he wound through traffic, the car filling with silence as my tongue tied itself in knots. This was ridiculous. I'd never had trouble talking to him before. There was no reason for it to change. Yet I couldn't get my mouth to work.

Eventually we drove into Santa Monica, and he found a parking spot a few blocks up from the pier. He was already coming around as I got out, and he tucked my hair behind my ear as I joined him on the sidewalk, a familiar gesture in a sea of uncertainty. I clung to it, even as his hand slid down my arm and took my hand.

Everything was changing, whether I wanted it to or not.

"Want to tell me what's going on in that head of yours?" he asked as we walked toward the pier. It was cooler out here by the ocean, goose bumps popping up. Braden took my shiver as his cue to wrap an arm around my shoulder, the warmth from his body seeping into my bones. I breathed in the scent of his cologne while I tried to figure out what to say.