In full-on withdrawals, I’m standing in the middle of my bathroom, my hair wrapped in one towel, and my body wrapped in another. I felt like a child yesterday at the restaurant when that waitress caught Cody’s attention, and I want to make a statement tonight—but what that statement is I have no idea.

I don’t really have a style. I’m vanilla—plain, blank…a canvas. I know how to put on make up, but I always seem to turn out looking like I’m ready for a graduate exam or an interview. I sift through my closet, which is full of blazers and blouses and tailored pants. During my internship, I work in a drafting studio at a high-top desk most of the day—my look, the only one I seem to have, revolves completely around this one small fact of my life.

I’m almost sad that I’m so void of color and identity, but I’m not even aware enough to be sad. I step out into my room and slide open the iPad for inspiration, going to some of the popular fashion websites. I blow past the pictures of pencil skirts and heels—I’m going to be walking through corn, so I need to be practical at some level. I land on the celebrity pages, and then it hits me.

I rush to my dresser and pull out black leggings and slide them up my legs. I drop the towels from my head and body and walk to my closet. Flipping through the hangars almost manically, I finally spot the gray sweater hanging sideways, half folded, on a wooden hanger in the back. I slip it on, and follow it up with my warm Ugg boots.

The neckline is low enough that you can sometimes get a glimpse of the lacy black bra I wear underneath. It’s a risk, but I feel up to the dare tonight. I dry my hair and tip the ends with a curling iron so my golden-brown locks are soft against the dark gray of my top. I go heavy on the eye shadow, and keep my lips simple with a little gloss. And when I back away, I’m almost stunned by what I see in the mirror.

I look hot—and I somehow pulled this off all on my own!

I’m smirking at my reflection when I hear a slight tapping on my bedroom door. My eyes shoot wide at the sound, and I’m dashing about the room, tossing towels and ugly clothing into the closet on the floor—like I’m hiding the evidence.

Cody’s back is turned when I finally open the door. I bite my lip, nervously anticipating his reaction—hoping he has one.

“Hey, so, do you mind if we take your car? My truck’s—” he freezes mid sentence, his eyes roaming the full scope of my body—literally head to toe. “Holy…”

I can’t help the smile on my face. Even though my cheeks feel like they’re about to pop from emitting so much heat, I love the attention. “Is this…okay?” I ask, stretching out my leg to show off my boots. “I wasn’t really sure what to wear. I’ve never been to anything like this.”

Cody just continues to stare, no blinking, no breathing, only his eyes falling once again down the length of my body. I try to mask it as best I can, but I let myself take him in now. He’s wearing black jeans with a pair of purple DC’s. His shirt is a dark gray thermal that he has pulled over a white T. He actually styled his hair into a low hawk, and the closer I step to him, the more I take in his smell—it’s a wooded scent with a hint of orange, and I feel like I’m drunk; it’s so delicious.

I close my door and raise my eyebrows at Cody, now trying to prompt him to speak, but also loving the fact that I’ve stunned him speechless—suddenly my torturous preparation for this evening feels well worth the trouble. “You were saying?” I say.

His swallow is noticeable, and he licks his lips slightly before he talks. He starts to laugh a little, and looks down at his feet, rubbing his hand along his neck before meeting my eyes again. “Yeah, not gonna lie—I was totally checking you out just now. You…well,” he’s stammering, “you just…you look hot, okay? There, I said it. You look hot.”

He’s sucking in his lips tightly, trying not to show me all his cards, clearly embarrassed. Not wanting to scare him off, I let him off the hook. “Thanks,” I say, taking my turn to look down at my feet. I owe him one for what he’s just given me. “You look pretty hot yourself,” I say, biting my lip when I turn back to him.

His eyes flash with that familiar fire, and then his grin spreads. He holds out an arm for me to take, almost as if he’s leading me into the debutante’s ball rather than taking me out to some old barn and a cornfield that’s probably plagued with mice. He guides me down the stairs and is even with me, step-for-step. His walking seems to be stronger tonight, his limp barely noticeable.