Tony had texted Summer earlier in the day to let her know what the dress code was—formal, but not overly formal—and what time he would be picking her up—7:40, for an 8:00 reservation—and then he had gone about the majority of his day.
It was a fairly normal day. He did some paperwork, babbled aimlessly at the dog, chased the otter down for a pair of keys, and very thoroughly made a mess in the workshop.
And then evening rolled around, as it is wont to do, and he wandered out of the lab to get ready so that when he pulled up at Summer’s apartment in the Veyron—let it never be said that he knew what subtlety was—he was showered, groomed, and well dressed.
Tony’s text had led to a massive ravaging of the closet. Summer loved pretty clothes, but she didn’t often indulge herself, and despite dating Tony (informally or no) for six months, she still often felt like she didn’t do him justice in the dressing up department.
Should it be the violet chiffon? Or maybe something more suited to her name? Something red; or was that /too/ formal? Maybe something low-cut over a plain skirt? Or more medieval?
Finally she gave up, dumped it all back in the closet, and spread the violet ruffles out on the bed. First choice was often best, and Tony rarely seemed to care what she wore. A shower, brush through the hair and then clipped out of the face loosely with a silver butterfly, long silver star earrings, a matching star on a black velvet band … She hoped she would pass muster. No shoes in the world would bring her close to his height.
There was no mistaking the sound of the Veyron, so she stepped out the door to meet him.