Man Crush Monday

Chapter 3

Heather lounges on my bed, rifling through the outfits I laid there to get her opinion on. With her free hand, she shovels Frosties straight from the box and into her mouth and crunches loudly, uncaring of the crumbs that drop onto my duvet or into her bra.

"Nope. Nope. Nope," she says, casually discarding each one into a messy pile with a flick of her wrist. "Amy, come on; just try on some of the stuff I brought round."

I frown into my wardrobe, scanning everything that's left in there. I'll be honest; there isn't much. Almost everything I own is screwed up and has already been rejected by my best friend. I groan and let my head drop back, closing my eyes. "Hev, I can't go on a first date with the guy and not be me. The only thing he's seen me wear is a work uniform. I need to show him who I am and see if he runs away, screaming." I turn back and pick up my cute jean shorts, the ones with the Union Jack flag sewn into the rear to conceal my modesty, and a gold strappy top. "What about this? These are my lucky shorts."

Her nose wrinkles as I hold the clothes against my underwear-clad body and add a big fake smile to try and convince her. "Weren't you wearing that exact outfit when you pulled that Italian bloke who turned out to be a stalker?"

I frown down at them and realise, yep, they are. "Okay, not-so-lucky shorts." I toss them over my shoulder and reach for the next thing—a black dress with long sleeves. I hold it up and raise an eyebrow.

"You wore that to my aunt Lizzie's funeral."

I sigh and toss that too. Setting my hands on my hips, I groan in defeat. Heather and I do not have the same taste, like, at all. She's all girlie girl who likes figure-hugging bodycon dresses. I'm more dungarees and belly tops or retro T-shirts, but if I don't pick something soon, I'll be going out in the sexy black lacy underwear I'm currently sporting.

"Okay, fine. Show me what you've got."

She grins, clapping her hands and moving the cereal box to my sideboard where crumbs scatter over my alarm clock. I jump when I see the time glowing there. It's 7:42. Jared texted me at lunchtime to say he would pick me up at eight.

"Shit, I need to pick something now! He's going to be here in less than twenty minutes!" My hand shoots up to my neck, and I grip the pendant that's on my necklace, rubbing my thumb over it as I watch Heather pick up a black bin bag full of clothes and upend it onto my bed with all my stuff. As I thought, it's all slinky numbers and nothing like what I usually wear. I frown and push my hand through the pile. A red-and-black-chequered T-shirt dress catches my eye.

"I bought that by accident—impulse buy; it was on sale, and I left it too late to return it," she says, still looking through the pile for something more suitable.

I make a dive for it and hold it up against myself.

Short sleeves. Mid-thigh. Pockets. Win!

"Ooh, I like this!" I say, already unzipping it at the neck and widening the opening so I can fit it over my hair that I painstakingly teased into loose beach waves for the last half an hour. The dress skims my body perfectly, fitted at the top to emphasize the girls, cinching in at the waist to show off my curves. "I really like this." I turn back to the mirror, examining myself.

Heather comes up behind me, ripping off the tags and zipping me up. "Pair of black tights to make it more you and then ... fucking gorgeous." She grins at me in the mirror.

She's almost as excited about this date as I am. She's been listening to me talk about this guy for months now. She came straight over after work and has been helping me get ready for the last couple of hours. She is the best wingwoman a girl could ask for.