Do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it.

Her earrings had done it. Huge thin silver hoops dangling from her earlobes, brushing against the curve of her neck. Her hair was up, her heels were high, her wrists were a mass of silver bangles and her lips gleamed a wicked, sinful red.

Do it, do it, do it, do it. Now. Do it now.

Ned didn't fully understand it, he never had, how the black rims around her eyes, how the silver shadow behind her eyelids, how the height of her heels and the gleam of her legs and the curve of her bare shoulders could do this to him. Bess and Kent were at the bar getting another round of drinks, George was hustling some drunken frat boys who didn't know any better out of the money in their pockets, and Nancy was grinning up at him, her eyes clear, her arms jingling faintly as she raised them over her head. They weren't by themselves, but they were as alone as the club would ever let them be.

He sucked in a breath and took the plunge, leaning in so close that their cheeks brushed, his lips next to her ear. "Go to dinner with me tomorrow night."

When he pulled back she was still smiling, but her eyes searched his. "You sure?"

He swallowed. "Yeah."

Two weeks had passed since his reunion. Three of the girls he'd run into there had somehow found his number and left messages on his answering machine. Three times he'd gone out with Bess, George, Nancy, and Kent. He'd thought about kissing her too many times to count, especially once she had lost the pinched, devastated look, especially once she'd begun to smile again.

His nerve had just never coincided with their being alone, not until tonight. He was almost glad. Tonight she hadn't mentioned the other man's name once, she hadn't stirred her drink with that distracted look on her face, and she hadn't turned him down for a dance any time he'd asked.

"Do I need to cut you off? No more drinks tonight?"

He curved his arm around the small of her back and drew her in close to him, the insides of her wrists brushing against his temples. "I've been nursing one beer the entire night," he said, seriously, diffusing it with a smile. "One beer."

"And if I, did, by some chance, decide..." She waved as Bess and Kent headed back toward them, and lowered her voice, so that he head to lean even closer to hear it. Her breath was warm against his ear. "What did you have in mind? Someplace small and intimate and French, with cloth napkins and a wine menu starting at a week's pay per bottle?"

He wanted to brush her earlobe with his lower teeth. He wanted to pull the slender strap down her arm, hold it in his fist while he buried his face against her neck. He wanted to kiss her until the sin-red lipstick was smudged against her blush-pink cheek and she was gasping for breath. All he could think was no, black lace, hotel champagne and strawberries, and you so exhausted that all we can do is roll over and order room service and pretend that anything I want to do doesn't involve you gasping my name and digging your nails into my back.

"I was thinking... small and loud and Greek, laminated menus and paper napkins and a completely incomprehensible wine menu, but we'd probably order beers and play footsie under the table and sing happy birthday to a couple twelve year olds while we waited for our food, and after I'd try to kiss you and you'd tease me with something about how good Catholic girls don't kiss on the first date and if you did, you'd have to confess it in the morning anyway."

"You think I'm a good Catholic girl? Is this gonna involve some sort of roleplaying and uniform thing?"

"Do you want it to?"

She laughed, her lashes a dark fringe on her cheek as she closed her eyes. "I'm not Catholic. And I probably wouldn't look good in a plaid skirt."

"Oh, I think you would," he said. "Not that you'd be wearing it for long."

Her breath against his neck. "You're good."

He smiled. "I try to be. But you're pushing me. Tell me yes, Nancy."

She pulled in a breath and he heard it in his head before she ever opened her mouth. It's too soon; I've been talking to him again; I don't feel that way about you; I don't want to jeopardize our friendship for this.

"Yes."

He pulled back and held her gaze with his, searched it. "Really?"

"Really," she said. "With the caveat that I'm a fragile and overemotional woman just getting over a very long and serious relationship, and that it's not only good Catholic girls who don't kiss on first dates."

"You're hopeless," he said, moving with her, and out of the corner of his eye he caught Bess approaching them. "I'll pick you up at seven."

"Can't wait."

To fill the time while he waited for seven o'clock to arrive, he found his old game console and played races over and over, beating his best times, flying off the course whenever he caught himself wondering what she'd be wearing and whether it might be a skirt and whether it might involve black lace. In the end he had decided that it would involve some sort of schoolteacher-type gown, high neck with a white lace collar, but that quickly involved her wearing a leather bustier underneath, and he sighed as he crashed his fifth car of the afternoon. He shook his head and put the controller down.

He changed his sheets, although doing so before the third date usually meant he wouldn't be lucky enough to get that far. He changed his outfit twice and even though he tried to wait as long as he could, he was still dressed and sitting on the couch with his hands on his knees by six o'clock.

When he called the apartment, George answered, mid-laugh. "Yes?"

"I was just-- hell, I don't know why I'm calling," Ned said, wiping his damp palm on the couch cushion beside him. "I guess because I think maybe I dreamed it."

"Oh, so you're the reason Nancy's in curlers right now," George teased him. "Yeah. Trust me, Bess has the big makeup kit out. I say you run to a jewelry store and buy something large and shiny immediately."

"She looks that good, huh."

"She will," George promised. "Sorry, I have some wax heating up on the stove. You'll be here at seven?"

"Why do you-- never mind," Ned replied, shaking his head. "I'll be there at seven. Sorry, I didn't know a simple invitation to dinner caused so much chaos."

"Usually it doesn't. I think you're a first."

"How so?"

George chuckled. "It's been a long time since Nancy's had a boyfriend who lived close enough to interfere with her social life."

"That sounds-- so wrong, on so many levels," Ned replied. "But I'd better let you get back to the hot wax."

"You'll thank me later," George said cryptically. "See ya."

Maybe she wants Italian. Maybe she wants it all formal... maybe I should change.

In the end, he showed up with a dozen red roses and a grin that looked far more confident than he felt. For a heartbeat, once the door was opened, he wondered if Bess's makeup job had served to change Nancy's face completely, until he realized that Bess was the one standing at the door, holding it open, her expression incredibly sad.

"Hi Ned."

"Hi... is she just almost ready?"

"She... has the worst timing ever," Bess said softly. "Ten minutes ago work sent a car by to pick her up. Ned, I'm so sorry."

"She couldn't... call me? Bess, you can tell me if she changed her mind, you don't have to lie."

George beckoned him over to the couch, and he handed the roses off to Bess and sat on the arm and read the folded note George gave him. Hurried script.

Ned, I'm so sorry, I'll make this up to you. I'll call you as soon as I can.

Nancy

Bess was watching him closely when he looked up. "Is this real?" he asked her.

Bess nodded, slowly. "She looked great when she left here, and she would have done anything to have five more minutes just so she could see you before she left."

"She'll be back later tonight?"

"We never have any idea," George replied. "She could be back in a few hours or a few days."

"Damn," he said under his breath. "Well, I guess... I'll go home and crawl into a bottle."

"No, no," Bess insisted. "We're gonna take you out. I've already called Kent, you guys can... bond, or something, and we'll make sure you get home at the end of the night. It'll be good. Not as good as it would be if Nancy's stupid work hadn't called her in, but what can you do."

At two o'clock that morning he stumbled back into his apartment and took in the clean sheets and fresh towels and the bottle of wine in the fridge, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He was supposed to be stumbling in with her right now, and she was God knew where, avoiding him. She had to be avoiding him. He had snuck out of the bar at midnight, after too many shots, and tried her cell phone, only to get her voicemail.

"Dammit," he hissed under his breath, and dropped heavily to the couch. "Dammit. I knew it wouldn't, knew it..."

When he woke in the morning, he had a terrible headache pounding between his temples and a rose petal closed in his fist.