Nine
“The pajamas,” Chris blurted as he backed away, his hand clutched against his chest and his eyes blinking furiously. “Soft. Silk.” Blink, blink. “Fabric.”
I nodded.
He blinked.
“I should, um, change,” I stammered.
Drat. I never stammered.
Not out loud, anyway.
He blinked.
Chris didn’t seem ready to speak anytime soon, and I needed to get out of my pajamas as quickly as possible—wait, I didn’t mean that how it sounded. I needed to change into something less, um, suggestive as quickly as possible. Either way, I turned tail and hurried to my room. And closed the door sharply behind me.
Don’t be even stupider—er, more stupid?—I told myself as I pulled on a knee-length, denim pencil skirt. Chris was gay. Gay. With a capital G and a cable show.
I was misinterpreting, overreacting
