With a laugh, Aly motions me over, then reaches for the laces at the side. She tugs and tightens, then repeats the process on the other side, binding me into the thing. “Now look,” she says.

I turn, do as she says, then gasp.

I’ve got tits. I mean, I’ve got actual, bouncy, overflowing tits.

“I think I love you,” I tell Aly. “And I know I love this corset.”

She laughs. “Told you so. And you know who’s really going to love it? Riley.”

A tingle of anticipation spreads though me, but I tamp it down. I don’t need to be thinking about Riley that way. “Just so long as I blend at the club. No,” I correct. “No blending. The idea is to be seen.”

Aly bites her lower lip as she studies me.

“What?” I demand.

“It’s just—” She makes a face, then barrels on. “Are you sure you’re okay doing this?”

My eyes go wide. “If it gets a stalker out of my life? Yeah, I think I can deal with going to a club.”

“No, I don’t mean the club,” she corrects. “I mean Riley. Maybe you outgrew it—maybe you’re just ignoring it—but I still remember.”

I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. “Remember what?”

She rolls her eyes. “You. Riley. All of it. You used to have the biggest crush on him, and don’t even try to deny it, because I’m the one you happy danced in front of when he finally noticed you. I mean, you two could have been a thing if it weren’t for—”

“Stop,” I say. “None of that matters anymore.”

“Why?” I can hear the sympathy in her voice, and I hate it. “Because of your dad? Come on, Nat. You can’t really—”

“Just drop it,” I snap, my voice thick. I turn away, not wanting my best friend in the whole world to see the way I’m keeping my eyes unnaturally wide in an attempt to keep a fresh wave of tears at bay.

I draw in a breath, then turn to her. “I’m sorry for snapping,” I say, meaning it. Where Riley and my dad and that whole horrible year are concerned, my nerves are always frayed. “But I’m thirty years old now. I’m beyond crushes.” I’ve moved on to safe. To practical.

“I don’t think you’re ever beyond crushes,” Aly says gently. “And I’m going back to my original question—are you sure you’re going to be okay? Because when you open your door tonight and Riley sees you… Well, sweetie, I’ll bet you a million dollars that boy’s cock is going to bust right out of his jeans.”

“You don’t have a million dollars,” I point out, fighting a smile.