He was thinking about her. A lot.Â
        âââThinkingâ might have been an understatement. See, Braxton had friends he âthoughtâ about: frequent as zephyr on a stale summer day, gone with the wind. He never allotted more than the curiosity of their well-being creasing a brow, or remembrance of an inside joke dimpling cheeks, or the indulgence their face in mind noting to reach out later. And then, with the quicksilvered speed of a mind that went a mile a minute, the thought of a friend was usually dispersed for anew. Usually, the keyword being. Nowadays, no matter the muddle of thoughts or how hard he tried not to, a russet chocolate gaze remained steadfast in his mindâs eye; a bed of osmium in a stormy sea.Â
        He tried to focus on other things. Busied himself with his projects, the brand deals he abhorred for a pretty penny. Nothing worked. When they did, the moment was ephemeralââ a stitched wound disrupted by a billboard bearing her show, or the echoed order of a martini at a bar, or the glimpse of a mannequin in a shop window heâd quickly mistake for her. Like the sweetest poison she was, suturing through tendon and sinking into bone, infecting his mind and rendering him vertiginous at the mere thought of her; of the way pools of deep umber never glazed through his tangents, but remained fastened with adore; of how someone like her could like someone like him, for him. The male filled with that same saccharine sickness when she agreed to accompany him to the Gala. But they were just friends, he tried to remind himself. Boy, was he in trouble.
        Black suit, black tie, hair slicked and clean-shaven, he had arrived as promised; James Bond in the fleshââ if James Bond lacked grace, debonair, sophistication. He was still handsome. More handsome than he gave himself credit for: all broad-shouldered and square-jawed, a vision for tall dark and handsome if there ever was one. And even then, as knuckles that bore countless fights rasped against her door, he was nothing compared to the sight that opened it.Â
        â⌠Damn,â Whatever witty greeting he had prepared was wiped from his tongueâs tarmac, his breath stuck in his throat as lips parted, eyes glued to her. She was adhesiveââ everything about her, from a sylphlike frame adorning a pretty dress, to her swanâs curve, to her plump lips a zenith to high cheekbones. And those eyes. Those fucking eyes. Stare into my soul, why donât youâŚÂ âYou, um⌠Fuck, you lookââ He was fumbling; a mess of hooded eyes and heat, mouth drying until his lips begged to be licked, swallowing hard as he searched for the right words. For once, he was at a loss. âIâve seem to have, umâŚ. to have lost my train of thought.â
     It wasnât expected, but it felt justifiable somehow. Thatâs what Giselle concluded somewhere between the invitation and the minutes leading up to Braxtonâs arrivalâ her thoughts running back to him at the most irrelevant, inexplainable moments was indeed not expected, but justifiable in so many ways.
Why wouldnât she think about him? He was a dear friend. Someone she cared about, valued, wished well. In many ways, it would be more odd if she didnât think about him, rude in fact. Justifying it was easier than she would have thought, just like thinking about him a lot was easier than she thought as well. What was less clear and much harder to explain was that other thingâ the slight flutter, the tingle that came with it, the hint of butterflies when she thought of him. That⌠was new.
How to navigate it was a mystery still, and she discovered nerves slightly frazzled as she slipped into the red dress that had been hanging on the back of her door for who knows how long, carefully dry-cleaned from some event she couldnât even rememberâ probably not a very important one anyway, begging to be used for something special. She reminded herself as she glanced at her reflection in the mirror that this might not be special⌠that this might just be a friend helping out another friend.
And yet still she tried her best to clean up nicely. To, at the very least, look like she could be accompanying Mr. Bond, and not just anybody. Raven hair pinned back, lashes curled and lips painted, a breath deflated her lungs when the sound of knuckles against wood billowed through the small space. Slipping into the heels waiting for her by the bed, she grabbed her purse and went for the door with her heart in her throat for yet another inexplainable reason.
It wasnât the crisp cold Bellevue wind that knocked the wind out of her, but she almost hoped it seemed believable that it wasâ no, heâd brought it. If there ever was a handsome James Bond 2.0 version, this was it. Him. The moment seemed almost suspended in time, her hand on the knob still, her eyes wide as she watched him watch her, and maybe vice versa. Warmth flushed her cheeks and she let a soft laugh go at his clipped sentences, unsure whether she couldâve got much out herself at this point to be fair.
âYouâre not the only one,â She said, not sure any train of her thoughts had been more lost than her current one. âBut really,â She began and smiled secretly, âYou look very handsome.â The flutter was back tenfold, making it harder for her to swallow, pushing her gaze to her hand before she turned and stepped outside next to him.
âReady?â She whispered, looking up at him.