hollis-partygirlFD-IN-EP

Party Girl’s

First
Date

Also by Rachel Hollis

Party Girl

Sweet Girl

Party Girl’s

First
Date

Rachel Hollis

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2015 Rachel Hollis

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Chic Publishing

www.thechicsite.com

Cover Design: Cortnee Brown

ISBN-13: 978-0-692-38091-8

First Edition

Printed in the United States of America

Part I: Landon

“Max
Jeennnings
!” I singsong my roommate’s name across the carpet just like Oprah announcing a free car.

As expected, she continues to ignore me. Too bad for her I know the one thing guaranteed to annoy her the most. Taylor Swift.

“Midnight . . .” I sing softly.

“Don’t,” she barks without looking up.

“You come and pick me up—
no headlights
.”

That did it.

Now she’s growling.

“Landon, I swear on all that is holy—”

Now she’s going to bring the Lord into this! And after all the conversations we’ve had lately about her language too.

“Max, don’t break a commandment! It’s not even dark outside yet!”

She’s sitting cross-legged on the sofa, hunched over her computer, and she must know I’ve tried on another outfit because she’s purposely avoiding looking up.

“So it’s OK to use the Lord’s name in vain after-hours?” she grumbles.

Uh, yes. It’s the most obvious thing in the world to me, but clearly she doesn’t know. I’ll explain.

“Of course not; it just seems a little less offensive. Like drinking a wine cooler, or going braless in front of company. It’s never really the right
thing to do, but at least after dark it’s less pronounced. Besides that, you promised you’d try to work on your language, remember?”

Even with her head down I can still see her scowl grow. I wonder if she’s remembering the night she made me that promise. She’d had one too many cocktails, which made her more amenable to my suggestion that her language was unbecoming a lady.

“That promise was made under duress,” she mutters to her screen.

I raise my eyebrows nearly to my hairline.

“That promise,” I tell her, “was made under vodka. That’s not the same thing and you know it.”

Max snorts and goes back to studying whatever is on her screen. I go back to studying Max.

The two of us could not be more different. I’m short, while she’s got legs up to her chin. I spend hours getting my long blonde hair to look this shiny, while she’s rocking more of an angry pixie cut. Match us up with Miko, a creative genius who glamorizes her own weirdo style, and we make for one heck of a mismatched triumvirate. Our wild differences are probably why we get along so well, though. I mean, who wants to hang out with replicas of themselves? Besides, like, maybe Kanye. He seems like he’d probably be super into that.

I find Max huddled over her computer like this all the time. She’s clearly into whatever she’s looking at, but she’s always careful to keep whatever it is hidden from me. I just hope it isn’t anything weird. I had a great-aunt who spent years covering up the fact that she had a second family made up entirely of Marie Osmond dolls. She kept it quiet for ages too. In fact, the only reason anyone found out is that our cousin Demarius happened upon her in the Dollar General three towns over talking to one of her “babies” while she pushed it around in a pram covered in Chantilly lace.

I’m not suggesting that Max would be into anything so odd, but she’s a very private person, and if she
did
have a secret collection of china babies dressed to look like pageant contestants, I’d have no way of knowing it.

I smile at the ridiculous thought and then focus again on the task at hand. Maybe insistence will get her attention.

“Please, Max,
please
? Scout’s honor—I really think this is the one!” I call across the living room.

My voice is
barely
not a whine. I do this because I know the touch of desperation will tick her off.

“You dress yourself every day, and you seem to have made it this far in life without my help.” She whips an angry hand off her keyboard and points to whatever crazy T-shirt she’s wearing today as some kind of evidence. “I’m not exactly the reigning fashion plate.”

I allow myself a small smile, because she’s not looking up at me anyway. I knew if I annoyed her enough she’d engage, and if she’s grouchy at least she’s not zoning out in her own little world. I’ve started to worry about her lately. She’s seemed so aimless since she graduated, and while she’s opened up to me and Miko in a lot of ways, in some ways she’s more closed off than ever. So even though I know I drive her crazy, I keep prodding her because on some level, I think it’s good for Max to be challenged.

Speaking of which, she’s still mesmerized by her screen. Time to bring out the big guns.

“And yet when you need to, you can somehow bust out a designer ensemble and makeup inspired by
WWD
,” I say sarcastically. “And yeah, you only wear black nail polish, but you and I both know it’s Chanel. You know, at first I thought your bipolar style was accidental, but then when you did that smoky purple eye for Miko’s party and it was
exactly
like the last Burberry ad, I—”

“Oh, for freak’s sake!” She slams her laptop closed and glares at me from across the room. I knew that would work.

“Look, you’ve been my roommate for six months—”

“Seven and a half,” I interrupt with a wink.

Max doesn’t even pause for a breath.

“And in that time you’ve managed to start
and lose
a job working at one of the biggest event-planning firms in the nation. I get that your boss was a soul-sucking nightmare, and that likely made your first months in LA feel like a profound life experience. Then, in sheer defiance of the laws of reality, you and Miko start your own company—”

“All because of your support and encouragement,” I interrupt again.

Again, she ignores me.

“—and you’ve actually managed to grow your client base, which is, frankly, way more than anyone expected so soon. Top it off with the fact that you’re officially dating Brody now.”

I can’t help but sigh a little at the mention of his name. My crush-level on this man is reaching some pretty epic proportions. But the interlude is brief; Max is still on her rant, and I’m going to have to say something or this could go on all day.

“That’s a lot of big things in a short period of time, and I can understand how you’d think that somehow bonds us or whatever, but—”

“Oh, come off it, Max,” I laugh. “I just want you to help me figure out what to wear. Like it or not, that’s what friends do, and despite your gruff exterior, your constant scowling, and your pretended indifference, that’s what we are. Now”—I wiggle my eyebrows dramatically—“what do you think of this one?”

I strike an expectant pose not unlike the BCBG mannequin who inspired this sassy little ensemble. The outfit feels sophisticated to me, and for my first real date with Brody, I’m going to need all the help I can get. I tucked a tight white T-shirt into a pleated black silk skirt that falls just below my knees. Both the black booties and the little leather tuxedo jacket are loans from Miko, leftovers from the days when our boss enforced an all-black dress code. Also, since I spent over an hour doing it, I can safely say my makeup is flawless. My hair is twisted back in a low messy bun. I feel a little naked without my hair being teased up to Jesus, but I’m nervous about how nice a restaurant we’re going to, and I don’t want to look like a country bumpkin.

Max
finally
looks me over. For a brief moment I actually think she might like my outfit, but then some emotion crosses her face so swiftly that I can’t make out what it is.

“Not that one,” she says quickly.

And now she’s turned away again, refusing to look me in the eye. What is this all about? I actually thought this combination was really pretty.

“Really?” Just to make sure she understands the fabulousness of the skirt, I twirl around once to show it off. “It’s so cute, though.”

“Really. Put the red one back on,” she barks before opening her computer back up.

The red-and-pink dress she’s referring to is the outfit I showed her first. It’s the sweetest Kate Spade dress, with a big skirt and a tight-fitting bodice. I literally squealed when Mama and Daddy gave it to me for Christmas. The only reason I didn’t choose it is because it seemed a little overeager. I mean, who wears a party dress on a dinner date?

“You don’t think that’s too loud?” I bite my lip. “Too, I don’t know, colorful for Hatfield’s?”

“Clearly he likes loud and colorful, or he wouldn’t be dating you, right?” she says without missing a beat. “Honestly, I hope you’re embarrassed by the way you’re acting. I know drag queens who don’t spend this much time debating what to wear!”

I can’t help but giggle at Max because she’s just so quick to get fired up. The funny thing is, I actually think she believes she’s stoic or calm, when really she’s the most emotional person I know. Because yeah, anger, outrage, annoyance—those are all emotions, and she wears them around like a favorite shirt.

“You’re right, girl. I know you are. It’s just our first
real
date.” I turn to walk back down the hallway. “I wanna look nice. I needed a second opinion on what he might like.”

“Yeah, because I’m the reigning intellect on what a man wants!” she calls after me.

“Oh, you do too.” I roll my eyes.

“What?” She sounds genuinely confused.

“You do too know what a man likes. Particularly when the man in question is your brother!”

I know she doesn’t need the reminder that I’m dating her big brother, since she still does her best to pretend it isn’t happening. I, on the other hand, do my best to ruffle her feathers because I have a sneaking suspicion the best thing for Max is to have some friends who aren’t afraid to tick her off. And I’m certainly not afraid of that; heck, I consider it a vocation.

Back in my bedroom I slip out of the outfit I have on and hang it all neatly in the closet. It takes me a hot minute to get my hair out of its pins and back into its natural state of big and bouncy. By the time I hear a knock on the front door, I’m ready to go, at least physically. Mentally I’m freaking out.

Brody and I have gone surfing; we’ve hung out at his house and bars and Max’s birthday party. And yes, we’ve kissed.
Holy Moses, have we kissed.
But our relationship is about nine minutes old, and it didn’t exactly get off to the easiest of starts. I
so
don’t want to mess everything up, and there are
oh so many
ways I could do that. First of all, we’re total opposites. He’s thirty-two, which is nine years older than I am. And—I’m just gonna say it—he’s rich. Like kind of stupid crazy wealthy. His being wealthy wouldn’t make a difference, except that I am most definitely not rich and never have been. Plus I’m forever saying these things in front of him that make me feel like a hillbilly, which—thank the good Lord—he seems to find charming instead of embarrassing. And lastly there’s the way he looks.
Blessed assurance
—he’s so hot it’s basically unnatural. He is the most beautiful man I—or anyone else for that matter—have ever seen, and sometimes it takes my breath away and I have to remind myself to breathe.

Like right now.

Breathe, Landon!

I take a strangled breath and give myself one more glance in the long mirror. My striped pink-and-red dress looks great, and so do my hair and the makeup that took me an hour and a half to apply. I’ve got my false eyelashes on, but I know he won’t mind; Brody knows the lashes come part and parcel with dating me. Last but not least, I step into the highest pair of black peep-toe shoes I’ve ever seen. I saved and saved for months to buy my first pair of Louboutins, because that red bottom said as much to our potential event clients as my portfolio ever would. It said we were successful enough that I could afford $800 shoes, and in LA perception is everything. So I’d saved up and bought the highest, sassiest pair I could find. Unfortunately I haven’t totally broken them in yet, so there’s a really good chance I’m getting a blister tonight. Oh well, a little blister is worth it since these shoes make my gams look about a mile long.

I take one last deep breath and then open the bedroom door.

—

When I walk into the kitchen, I can feel the residual tension of something between Max and Brody, but I’m too wound up to comment on it. I’m dealing with enough tension of my own.

I can’t even bring myself to look up at Brody. One quick glance at him sitting at the counter on our only functioning barstool shows me that he is wearing navy-blue slacks and a light-blue button-down, which is his typical pulled-together style. But his hair—oh, his hair—is in tousled dark-blond disarray, like he ran his hands through it too many times. His tan and the natural highlights in his hair might appear fake to most people who know his net worth, but I know they’re from the time he spent surfing every morning this week. The fact that I have insider information about this businessman/surfer boy never ceases to make my stomach flip.

That stomach flip is typically followed by long moments of me gazing adoringly at him. At the time I feel dreamy and beautiful, but Miko has assured me that my “weird staring thing”
actually looks like I’m about to murder him and make a coat out of his skin—her words, not mine.

So to avoid that, I don’t look up. I walk around the bar to Max and take a drink of the cocktail in front of her without even asking for permission or stopping to see what it is.

The drink is strong and the flavors unexpected, just like Max.

“That’s a good one,” I say because it’s the truth. “Is that pepper in there?” Now I’m stalling.

“Just a little.” Max gives me her usual shrug.

“I like it—gives it a little kick.” I smile down at the glass.

OK, Landon, for Pete’s sake! Man up and act like a lady!

I finally look across the bar at Brody and say the most brilliant thing I can think of.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he says back.

Oh, what the heck. I’ll just be honest with him; that’s got to be better than continuing to act like a three-year-old.

“I’m a little nervous.”

Brody’s face splits into a grin. I relax for the first time in hours.

“Me too,” he tells me.

I can’t even help it—I smile so big my face hurts. I smile so big my heart hurts. I feel giddy and excited and so darn happy, I might implode. I really, really like this boy—man, whatever—and the way he’s smiling back at me says that he likes me too.