PLOTTING and SCHEMING || D.R.

Chapter 4

DESPITE HAVING A wardrobe full of nice clothes, I still managed to not have anything to wear. Saturday evening rolled around quickly, and I spent most of the morning grocery shopping and running errands. I stopped at the liquor store to restock the boys' bar in the kitchen.

Surprisingly, my brother eventually offered the invitation for me to come along on their game night. I had nothing better to do, and it's been a little while since I've enjoyed a night out.

What does a girl even wear to a brewery?

I knew what Thatcher was going to wear without even having to ask. A pair of jeans, his leather belt, his worn out boots, and an oversized button-down shirt. It was his usual.

I slipped a sundress over my head, putting my arms through the straps. It was a maxi dress, one of my favorites, but it was a little too long to bear in the heat. I frowned before taking it back off, throwing it on the end of my bed. I sighed, walking over to the dresser to take a sip from the cocktail I made before coming up to get ready. I decided against any makeup, because I'd just sweat it all off. It was supposedly one of the hottest weekends of the year, after all.

Another twenty minutes passed, and I decided on a comfortable but cute outfit: a white mini skirt that showed off enough leg and made my butt look good. Then I pulled on my white tube top; it was tight around my breasts but a seam below, where the cotton material flowed and hit the top of the skirt. I stuck on my platform espadrilles, lathering on some lotion and body oil, before exiting my room.

I noticed the bathroom door wasn't all the way closed, but the shower wasn't on and I heard the sound of an electric razor. I knocked, softly.

The door swung open all the way, revealing Donald with half of his face covered in shaving cream. He turned off the blade, cutting the noise. All I could hear was distant music playing downstairs, from Thatcher's speaker.

"Sorry," I took in the sight of him. His eyes widened. "Can I just grab my curler, really quick?"

It seemed as though he was also taking in the sight of me, or I was just having delusions. For once, I actually felt confident--knowing I looked good and smelled even better. Or maybe it was the tequila soda talking.

"Sure." He turned, allowing me to step inside the bathroom. It was the biggest bathroom in the house, with a double his and hers sink, glass shower, and bidet. A little too fancy for my taste--too modern, but it felt like a nice hotel bathroom. Which, their apartment was basically my hotel for the next few days.

I opened the drawer I'd put my hair products in, pulling out the styling utensil.

"We can share, if you want. I'm almost done." Don side-steps, making more room for me at the counter. "You clean up nicely, by the way."

"Oh, sure. Thank you." I smiled. I didn't mind doing my hair in my room, but the mirror in here was better. "You too."

A small blush crept onto my cheeks. I tried to hide it, facing away from him to plug the curling iron into the outlet in the wall. I could feel his eyes on me through the mirror. I did a terrible job at hiding my expression. There was something about Donald—he had this super tough-guy frequency, and it held up. I found it a tad intimidating.

We both delved into our prospective chores; he resumed to shaving his face and I got to curling pieces of my hair. Once in a while I would sneak a peek over at him, and sometimes I felt him doing the same. We worked in silence, listening to my brother sing along to his music horrendously. When his voice would crack we'd just laugh.

He'd finished up, splashing his face and drying it with a small beige cloth. He sent me a soft smile before leaving the room, leaving me all to myself.