Part Thirty Two

You Will Find Your Way

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Part Thirty Two of You Will Find Your Way
There’s drunken purchases and then there’s DRUNKEN purchases.

“What do you think is an outfit that screams, ‘for the love of all that his holy, this is a business dinner, so please don’t hit on me’?”

“Gotta be the opposite of the outfit that says, ‘I really hope you overlook how creeped out you are about my arm so we can start having sex on a regular basis’.”

Giselle pulls her head out of the closet in the spare bedroom—the one where they keep the bulk of their shared wardrobe since they’ve been living together so long it’s difficult to tell whose clothes are whose—and she spins around and glares, “Seriously, Dallas?”

“What?” Dallas doesn’t bother looking over her shoulder as she digs through the dresses for that one specific pair of black skinny pants that are hiding among all the other pairs of black skinny pants they’ve accumulated over the years. “He’s better looking in proper lighting, and I don’t think ‘chicks before dicks’ applies anymore since I don’t actually remember him dating my big. Or my big, period. What was her name again? Marissa? Marnie? Miranda?”

Michelle.”

“Right. I knew that.”

Giselle rolls her eyes, tugs another dress out of the closet at random, considers it for a second before she deems it too nice for what she’s trying to pull off.

Balancing the concepts of yes, I know this is a nice restaurant and I can’t get away with dressing like an actual heathen and I really, really, really don’t want Doctor Sweeney to hit on me, is an incredibly fine line to toe.

“I’m not wearing a dress,” Giselle announces after she dismisses another three random picks, plus two more suggestions from Dallas. “I’m not. Nope. Don’t want to give him the damn satisfaction.”

After finding the pants in question and sliding them up over her hips, Dallas looks around the pile spread out on top of the dresser and plucks out another fundamentally similar yet also completely differently cut pair of black skinny pants, “Wear these.”

Giselle considers them and shrugs, “Better than nothing,” she mutters as she tugs her leggings down her legs while Dallas picks through the piles of tops for them both.

A few minutes later, a sheer white button-down goes flying in Giselle’s direction.

She snatches it out of the air, plucks at her top and considers her bar, “Uh, I don’t think-”

Before she can finish her thought, Dallas throws a thin gray sweater over her shoulder, and Giselle breaks off when it smacks her in the face, “Oh thanks,” she says, voice muffles as she drags one of the sleeves off her shoulder.

“You’re welcome,” Dallas chirps, turns her back and strips off her layered tank tops, replacing them with something a little more solid and a little better for the cooling temperatures of the season. “But you should still wear heels. That way Sweeney can think he’s going to get some and therefore hopefully be slightly less of a dick, but you can shove one up his ass if he tries to get handsy.”

Giselle huffs, but gets dressed, turns toward the mirror hanging on the closet door and fiddles with her hair, “I look like that scientist from that SHIELD show.”

“Well she’s hot, so good for you,” Dallas says as she turns, and her brows fly to her hairline. “Damn, sometimes I really wish you were my type. You rock that hot librarian look hard.”

“Oh Dallas,” Giselle simpers without turning around, flutters her eyelashes at Dallas’ reflection. “You know I’d rather third-wheel you tonight.”

“The sacrifices you make for academia.”

“The sacrifices I make for you, you mean.”

Dallas winks, “That too.”

——

Unfortunately, the problem with Dallas and Giselle both having dinner plans at the same time at the same night is that—

Doctor Sweeney and Luke end up on their porch at the same time.

“Well,” Dallas chirps and slaps her hands together as she and Giselle open the door. “Isn’t this quite a—thing.”

Also unfortunately, Doctor Sweeney makes no secret that he’s checking Giselle out, “Professor Quiggle, you look—lovely,” he manages to grit out through some apparent disappointment.

Because she’s not wearing dress?

Seriously.

What a jerk.

Giselle sends a look to Dallas that screams this is your fault, I hate you, help me, and Dallas resists the urge to cackle as she looks at Luke, “You’re here for the librarian chic look, right?”

“Oh, of course,” he answers immediately, eyes glimmering as he plays along, through he does look a little confused.

Dallas claps her hands together again, “Well, I will explain later,” she looks at Giselle, pecks her on the cheek, because she is kind of an ass. “Good luck.”

She loops her arm through Luke’s and pulls him down the porch steps, snickering when Doctor Sweeney’s affronted huff echoes behind them.

Sure, she feels a little guilty for leaving Giselle to him, but also—

No.

“Dare I ask?” Luke asks when they’re in his car.

“Probably not,” Dallas grins sideways at him. “But I might tell you if this place has any decent wine.”

Luke shakes his head and pulls the car from its parking spot, “You really love your wine, don’t you?”

“I developed a taste for it after I bought my vineyard in Napa.”

Fortunately, they’re at a red light when she says it, so Luke can gape at her without risking them crashing into the car in front of them, “Bought?”

She shrugs, “I had to do something to do with all the spare time I had, you know, waiting to catch back up with the present.”

“How long ago did you buy a vineyard?”

Shrugging again, Dallas looks down at her hands, counts back on her fingers before she drops them back on her lap, “I don’t actually remember. I don’t remember a lot of things before eighteen eighty-three or so, but I definitely had it for a while by then.”

Silence fall around the car, and Dallas is a thousand percent Luke regrets inviting her to dinner, and is probably about to turn the car around and drop her off back at the house.

But when the light turns green, he crosses the intersection and chuckles, “I’m sure you have a lot of interesting stories from back then.”

She winks again, “One or two.”

You Will Find Your Way continues with Part Thirty Three

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Author: TheFakeRedhead

A life-long college sports fan and forever bitter about the country's east coast biases, Kathryn, the Fake Redhead, graduated from the University of Arizona with a BA in Creative Writing, emphasis in poetry because she felt the fiction studies emphasis was too pretentious. She is currently helping other writers hone their craft while she pursues her dreams of becoming a published novelist.

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