This wasn’t a mistake for me, exactly, more for Dad. Without us finishing with the boxes, Jessie and Mom, both master shoppers, pressed Dad into taking us to the nearest mall where we bought dishtowels and, while we were at it, four new full sets of bath towels that were super thick and luxury soft to replace the ones Colt had in his bathrooms.

Jessie also guided us to her favorite shoe store under Dad’s visibly growing annoyance, and we bought me a pair of black heels to wear to the funeral. I could almost, if I sat down carefully and didn’t move too quickly, fit my ass and tits in her clothes. Shoes, no go. My feet were two sizes bigger than hers and I had nothing but a pair of black cowboy boots and black motorcycle boots and, of the two, I was going to go for the cowboy boots but Jessie said they wouldn’t do. Since we were there, Jessie also talked me into a pair of high-heeled boots she said would go better with my Costa’s with Colt jeans skirt and those boots were so hot, I knew she wasn’t wrong.

Needless to say, we got home at a time where there was no way for me not to run late in preparations for the funeral.

I finished with my hair and was gunking it up with shit that cost a fortune but was worth every penny because it did wonders to my hair when I heard Mom and Dad call out their good-byes. I shouted mine back and wondered what they’d been doing while I was getting ready. I figured, knowing Mom, there weren’t any boxes left and the new towels were probably in the wash in preparation to be used. Hell, by this time, they were probably in the dryer.

I walked into the bedroom and saw Colt’s blazer was on the bed but the rest of the clothes he wore that day were on the floor. This might have irritated me normally, but since he was wearing a pair of suit trousers in dark gray, a tailored shirt in a gray only two shades lighter than the suit, had a tie hanging around his neck that was black but had a subtle pattern of lighter gray, blue and green and he looked really good in all this, I didn’t mention his clothes on the floor.

He looked at me, saw me staring at him unmoving and said, “Feb, get a move on.”

“Right,” I replied, walking to the dresser where I’d commandeered two drawers which meant serious reorganization since it was apparent that Colt had collected t-shirts since he was fourteen and never threw a single one away. After some time spent on this endeavor, I managed the task of fitting his t-shirts into two drawers rather than the four he used because, folded neatly, rather than shoved in in bunches, they took a lot less room.

I pulled out undies and a bra and tugged on the panties under the t-shirt, then yanked off the tee, tossed it on the bed and put on my bra.

I was spritzing with perfume when Colt’s hands hit my waist, slid in, crossed paths, and went up, one palming my breast, the other one wrapping around my side, his fingertips trailing along the bra line under my armpit. I stopped moving except to shiver, mainly because I liked his hands on me and I felt it necessary to concentrate on that feeling.

“Is it sick you can make me hard before we go to a funeral?” he asked in my ear and showed me what he meant by pressing his h*ps into my ass.

I figured weddings and funerals put you in the mood. The first, because they were romantic and hopeful. The last, because they reminded you that life was short and you should spend as much of your time on the good stuff as you could while you had that time.

“I’m thinkin’ it’s natural,” I told him, the flat of his palm did a circle against my nipple and it felt so good, without me willing it to do so, my head fell to his shoulder. Still, I said, “Colt, remember? We’re runnin’ late.”

“Fuck,” he muttered into my neck and let me go.

He walked to the bathroom while I started the process of getting dressed. I watched through the door as he stood in front of the mirror and did up the last buttons of his shirt at the collar then lifted up his chin and tied his tie. I had to quit watching because this seemed weird to me in a glorious way and it struck me just then that all those years, this was what I was hiding from. The knowledge that I’d lost a life where I could watch Colt casually getting dressed in the bathroom. I’d never needed a romantic fairytale of princes and castles because I always knew my prince was Colt and I didn’t need a castle. I’d be satisfied anywhere, a crackerbox house or a cardboard box, just as long as Colt was there.

And, through those years, Colt wasn’t there.

I shook off these thoughts in order to get dressed and had successfully smoothed on a pair of black hose, something I hadn’t worn in so long I forgot how much I detested them and the act of putting them on, and shimmied into the pencil skirt of Jessie’s I chose mainly because it fit, but barely, when Colt walked out of the bathroom. I was shrugging on the black, satin blouse, which also fit snug, when Colt got close.

“Meet you in the living room,” he said and I nodded at him.

His eyes watched me doing up buttons for awhile before he walked to the closet, nabbed his suit jacket and headed out the door.

I finished dressing and wondered how long it would be before my new spike heels would start killing my feet. I got my answer two seconds later when they started killing my feet. I put on my watch and a pair of diamond stud earrings that Reece bought me on what I thought, at the time, was a lark. I thought this because Reece made his usual show of acting like it was no big thing, even though they cost some serious cake. Now I knew it was a sign neither he nor I cottoned onto until it was too late.

I hit the living room and saw Colt, now wearing his suit jacket and looking even better than before, through the opening over the kitchen bar. His eyes were aimed at the counter but his head came up when he caught my movement and I nearly slid off the side of my heel when his gaze hit me.

“Ready,” I announced and he grinned.

“I can see that.”

I stopped in the living room but he didn’t move nor did he take his eyes from me.

“We going or what?”

“Give me a minute, Feb. Don’t get this view very often. In fact, never.”

“It’s just a skirt,” I said.

“And heels.”

“It’s just a skirt and heels.”

“A tight skirt.”

“Jessie’s smaller than me.”

“And high heels.”

“Colt –”

“Sexy as hell high heels.”

I put my hands to my h*ps which made the blouse stretch tighter at my br**sts and I knew Colt saw it because his eyes moved directly there.

“We’re going to a funeral,” I reminded him.