But adults don’t really have chaste, snuggly sleepovers. Probably because boners get in the way.

“Good night, Chloe. See you tomorrow.”

“Good night,” I say, and hang up, then feel a tiny shock of electricity as I think about Nick being my date tomorrow night. Sure, I don’t want to see this movie. Sure, I’m going to spend the entire time squirming in my chair and wishing I were anywhere else. But Nick will be beside me, holding my hand, being my friend. It will be okay.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Nick looks so fucking ridiculously hot that I almost want to punch him in the face.

When he picks me up, he doesn’t honk his horn or text me to let me know he’s here. He gets out of his truck and knocks on my door, so when I open it I’m greeted with Nick in a suit. And he has a beard.

“Why do you look like this?” I ask, horrified. How in God’s name am I supposed to stop myself from tackling him to the ground when he shows up somehow looking hotter than he did yesterday?

He looks down at his suit. “Am I overdressed?”

“Yes, but that’s not what I mean.” I shake my head. My entire body is on fire; Nick looks like he’s a lumberjack who moonlights as a J.Crew catalog model. “Did you get that tailored?”

Nick fidgets with one of his buttons. “Yes. I’m tall and skinny. I have to get everything tailored or else I look like an awkward teenager in borrowed clothing.”

“And what is this?” Before I can stop myself, I reach out and stroke my hand over his short beard. Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea blares the alarm in my head. Flames consume my hands and burn off my fingerprints. “How did you grow a full-on beard since the last time I saw you?”

He shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “I didn’t shave. This is what happens.”

This is a personal affront. Only Nick could grow a beard from scratch in a day for the express purpose of sexually tormenting me.

I exhale, then grab my purse from the hook beside the door. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”

“Hey.” Nick stops me and puts a hand on my arm before we descend the stairs. “You look amazing.”

I can feel myself start to blush, which is silly, because I don’t blush, not even when people are making much more suggestive comments than this. I do, however, know that I look good. I chose a sexy/funky dress, one that shows off my body while still mixing patterns, with stripes on top and a green-and-purple floral pattern on the bottom. It says, Yes, I’m quirky, but also, boobs. It’s kind of like if ModCloth and some skanky store at the mall had a baby.

“Thank you,” I say, holding my head high. “And thank you for escorting me to the premiere.”