Chapter 1:
O. M. G.
I turned slowly in front of the full-length mirror.
I looked fantastic!
I smoothed the fitted bodice of my high-neck halter dress. Black satin wrapped around my neck, flowing into black-on-black horizontal stripes that ended just under my breasts. The fabric changed to a shimmery gold with vertical black stripes extending down the skirt. It was sleeveless and fit perfectly. The designer off Etsy who’d made it had done an incredible job. The light glinted off the subtle gold tones and the skirt flared in a perfect bell to my ankles.
The doorbell rang and I nervously adjusted my hat, turning it slightly until it was just right. Tugging on silver gloves that went past my elbow and halfway up my arm, I then slipped on a pair of matching gold ballet slipper flats and hurried through the living room to the front door, swinging it open just as the bell rang again.
“Happy Hallo—” My voice trailed away in dismay. “What are you wearing?” I blurted.
Jackson Cooper—my erstwhile boss and current boyfriend—stood in my doorway, eyeing me with the same look of shock that I was sure was on my face.
“I’m wearing a tux,” he said, gesturing to his attire—a gorgeous black tuxedo with a blindingly white shirt, perfectly tied bow tie, and black shoes that shone even in the dim light. “What the hell are you wearing?”
“A dress,” I said, maybe a little defensively. Okay, a lot defensively. I was starting to be a bit concerned that I’d misinterpreted what Jackson had meant when I’d asked what kind of party we were going to on Halloween. “I’m a dalek.”
“I can see that,” he said, gesturing to my hat, a gold dome complete with knobs and eye stalk. “But why are you dressed as a dalek?”
“It’s a Halloween party, isn’t it? I asked you and you said, ‘Yes, it’ll be fancy, so dress up.’ That’s what I did.”
“China . . .”
That’s me. China Mack. Well, sort of. Mack was a shortened version of my middle name—Mackenzie—not my real last name, which was so long it had proven unpronounceable by 99 percent of the people who tried. In school, I’d never been able to fit my whole name in those little bubbles on standardized tests. Not that I’d had to take many of those. Once my IQ was measured at one hundred seventy-five—genius range—I’d never taken another one of those tests. Instead, I’d been fast-tracked and had graduated MIT at the age of nineteen with two undergrad degrees in computer science and biological engineering plus a master’s in engineering. That was four years ago.
Jackson passed a hand over his eyes while I bit my lip, awkwardly switching the wire whisk I was holding to the other hand. The gold, palm-sized, half-moon-shaped balls attached up and down the length of my skirt banged against the door as I stepped back. The noise made me wince, as did Jackson’s sigh.
“You do that a lot,” I said.
“I do what a lot?”
“Sigh.” He said nothing, so I continued. “I mean, it’s perfectly natural. Your body even requires sighing. When a person needs a breathing machine, sighs have to be programmed into the ventilator or the patient will suffer from oxygen deprivation.”
His lips twitched. “Is that so?”
I nodded . . . and my hat slid off. Jackson caught it neatly before it hit the floor. “Thanks,” I said, taking it from him. The two little knobs on the side looked a little like Shrek to me, but it went with the costume. “I guess I should go change.”
“Probably a good idea.”
“This’ll make a great cosplay costume for ComicCon, though,” I said, turning my back to him. “Unzip me?”
“Mmmm . . . yes, please . . .” This was followed by the slow lowering of my zipper and the touch of Jackson’s lips to the back of my neck. Suddenly I wasn’t sorry at all that I needed to change.
Twenty minutes later, Jackson was buttoning his shirt and tucking the tails back into his slacks while I stood in front of my closet clad in my favorite Victoria’s Secret Dream Angels panty and bra set in dove-gray lace with white trim. Hands on hips, I surveyed my clothing.
“I have a problem.”
“Just one?”
I wasn’t the best at inferring whether someone was joking or not—one of my many social inadequacies—so I turned to glance at Jackson. He was grinning at me and looking too sexy for a man who’d just given me three orgasms in a row. But the smile meant he was teasing.
“Yes, just one at the moment, but it’s a big one.” I gestured to my clothes. “I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Surely you have a dress, a skirt, something,” he said.
I shook my head. “I own a TARDIS dress, a Star Trek—the Original Series—Uhura minidress, and Princess Éowyn’s wedding gown from Return of the King.”
“If you own Princess Leia’s metal bikini, we’re skipping the party.”
“That chafes,” I said absently, turning around to poke through my closet again. Did I have anything in the back that I’d forgotten?
“We’ll revisit that later,” he said. “What about Mia?”
“She’s out at a friend’s house,” I replied. “What about her?” I failed to see how my niece’s presence would alleviate my problem.
“I meant, what about her clothes?” Jackson asked. “You two are about the same size. She probably has something you can wear.”
I gave Jackson a look. “She wears like a size two. Besides, I can’t just go wear someone else’s clothes. Not only is it rude, it’s unsanitary.”
“I’m sure she washes her clothes,” he said, reaching for my hand.
“But she washes her yoga pants with her fleece,” I protested, obediently letting him lead me to my niece’s bedroom, which used to be my storage room before she moved in a couple of months ago.
“So?”
“So . . . everyone knows that if you wash fleece with something stretchy, lint becomes forever embedded in the stretchy fabric. She should wash her yoga pants with other stretchy workout wear, though why she wears workout clothes just to sit on the couch and watch television is beyond me.”
Jackson opened Mia’s closet and began searching through it. Selecting a garment, he pulled it out and held it up in front of me. “That should work.”
I looked down. “But it’s really short . . .” As in miniskirt short.
“Yes.”
“It’s October. I’ll freeze.”
“No, you won’t. I’ll keep you warm.”
I opened my mouth to tell him he couldn’t physically fulfill such a promise, but the look in his eye and the set of his jaw told me his patience might be wearing thin. I took the dress.
“Okay.” I unzipped it, stepped in, and pulled the black fabric up my legs, shimmying to get it over my hips. “She shouldn’t even own a dress like this. She’s only fifteen.”
“Kids nowadays,” Jackson said, and I was glad to see him smiling slightly again.
I pushed my arms through the holes and turned around so he could zip me. “It barely covers my . . . tush.”
“Your tush?” he teased with a laugh.
“Well, what else are you supposed to call it? Butt sounds vulgar. Ass is worse. Rear sounds like I’m a granny.” I looked over my shoulder at him. “What do you call it?”
His hand settled on the body part in question and squeezed. “I call it awesome,” he said softly, his lips by my ear.
Though he hadn’t really answered my question, I wasn’t dumb enough not to appreciate a heartfelt compliment on my . . . “Posterior?” I tested out. Jackson just laughed.
“That’s even worse. Come on. Let’s go.”
