The Secret to Dating Your Best Friend’s Sister

by Quinn, Meghan

  Roark chokes on his drink. “As in Munson Construction?”

  I tip my glass of whiskey toward him. “The one and only.”

  “No shit. Would you look at that, our boy Rath is all grown-up and schmoozing with the rich and famous. Do you think I should strip down to my dick and streak across the room to remind him of where he came from?”

  I let out a low chuckle. “I wouldn’t recommend it. He wouldn’t even bat an eyelash when it came to sicking security on you.”

  “You’re right. And you know what, I just don’t feel like spending my night in jail tonight.”

  It wouldn’t be his first time, or second for that matter. Roark has a track record for getting in trouble, mainly fistfights outside pubs. It’s his go-to. He’s gotten away with almost all of them, but there have been the occasional assholes who’ve pressed charges.

  He blames it on the Irish temper.

  I blame it on his alcohol intake, which I guess is due to his Irish roots.

  “How much longer are we staying?”

  I glance at my Rolex. “Eh, I’d say twenty more minutes and our time is served.”

  Roark downs the rest of his drink and then smacks his lips. “That means five more trips to the bar.” He pats my chest as he walks by. “Open bar was a smart decision on Rath’s end.”

  Maneuvering past throngs of small groups, Roark makes his way to the bar in record time and is already reaching into his wallet for a tip. The man never ceases to amaze me. It’s a good thing he’s self-made or else no one would want to hire his drunk ass.

  Whiskey halfway to my mouth, I scan the crowded event. Tucked away in some old building I never knew existed, Rath put together an evening to remember with gold lighting against the old stone walls, a live band playing big-band music, and praise-worthy tapas. The donors are happy, and whenever I look at Rath, all I can see are dollar signs lighting up his eyes as he talks to yet another attendee. This event no doubt cost him at least one hundred thousand dollars, but he’ll make that amount back at least times five. He wouldn’t put on this event if he didn’t.

  A burst of laughter gathers my attention as I turn to the right to see what all the commotion is about. Standing in a silver dress that cascades perfectly down her body, modest, but still gorgeous, is Julia, hand on an older man’s shoulders, a giant smile on her face as she laughs with him.

  Shit . . . she looks . . . stunning.

  Blonde tendrils of curls fall past her shoulder, red lipstick kisses her mouth, and a heavy dose of mascara helps those baby-blue eyes of hers stand out even more than normal.

  But it isn’t the makeup or the dress or the hair that has my dick pressing against the zipper of my trouser pants; it’s the upturn of her lips and the lightness in her eyes.

  I’ve only seen Julia this happy, this carefree a few times. When she drops the normal serious tone and lets loose, she’s a goddamn beautiful sight to behold.

  Drawn to her smile, to her laughter, I invite myself into their circle. I press my hand on her hip, letting her know I’m here. She looks over her shoulder and lights up right before throwing her arms around my neck. “Bram,” she says excitingly, a bit of a slur in her words. Oh hell, she’s drunk. Surprisingly, it doesn’t take much to get Julia drunk; one drink or two and she’s a happy girl.

  I’m guessing she’s at two-drink status right now, especially given I have her in my arms, something she’s never done willingly. Something I like.

  Once she releases me, she loops her hand around my arm and says, “This is Bram Scott, Rath’s best friend, and a huge donor to the foundation.”

  I nod curtly. “Nice to meet you all, but if you don’t mind, I’m going to steal Julia away for a moment.”

  The older gentleman slyly nods at me as I usher her away to the dance floor. I hand a waiter my empty tumbler and then grab Julia tightly at the waist, getting into dance form.

  When I look at her, I catch her smiling at me. “You’re drunk.”

  “Mm-hmm.” She nods happily.

  “How many drinks?”

  “Twoooo,” she sings and sways in my arms.

  “Two too many it seems like.”

  “No”—she playfully swats my chest—“two is just right.” She grips my shoulder and then moves her hand to the back of my neck, sending a wave of goosebumps down my arm.

  “Two is just right, huh? Two seems like you’re going to have a headache in the morning.”

  “No way.” She presses her fingers into the back of my head, running through my hair, right over the button that makes me want to flip my tongue out of my mouth and start panting.

  Drunk Julia also seems to be handsy, and I like it.

  A lot.

  It’s making all my college dreams about her come true, all those nights I spent wondering what it would be like to actually date Julia, to make her mine, how it would feel to have her in my arms, to have her lips on mine.

  Fuck, what would she do right now if I leaned forward, and took what I wanted so desperately in college? What I’ve wanted for so long but have tamped down over the years, thinking it would never happen.

  Sure it would never happen.

  But tonight, with her arms wrapped around me, it almost feels like I have a chance.

  She presses her cheek against my chest and closes the rest of the space between us. On a happy sigh, she falls in line with my steps, letting me completely lead the way.

  Christ, she feels so small in my arms, so perfect. Every last feeling for this woman I’ve tried to hide quickly comes to the forefront of my heart.

  I can picture it. Julia and me together . . . finally. Holding hands, laughing together, sharing nights together . . . sharing mornings together.

  And from the way her hands roam my body and the look of complete satisfaction on her face, she seems interested.

  It could be the two drinks.

  It could be the ambiance of the night.

  But I’m going to ignore both factors and say it’s neither of those things, that it’s the feeling of being in the arms of a long-lost friend, and finally tapping into an untouched attraction.

  I tip her chin up, her eyes cloudy, but her smile clear as day. I take a moment to take her in, so close, so intimate, her lips only a few inches away. “You look beautiful, Julia.”

  “I curled my hair.” She bobs her hand under her hair, showing off the long blonde strands.

  Chuckling, I answer, “I can see that, and it looks really pretty.”

  “And I’m not wearing a bra.”

  Because I’m a man, my eyes go straight to her breasts, trying to see through the silver of her dress. I swallow hard, the light imprint of her nipple pushing against the fabric. I grow hard in a second and slowly and inconspicuously move my pelvis away from hers.

  Unsure of what to say, I reply, “Is that so? Tonight, I’m not wearing a bra either.”

  Her nose scrunches up as she tilts her head to stare at me.

  Not my best response, but I’m a little thrown off my game right now. For some reason, I wasn’t expecting to see Julia tonight. I wasn’t expecting her to look so goddamn sexy. Nor was I expecting her to have her fingers running through my hair, making me feel like a lustful idiot either.

  “Do you ever wear a bra?”

  I shake my head firmly. “No. I don’t.”

  “Okay. Just making sure.” Her hands slide back to my shoulders and then to my chest where she grips the lapels of my jacket. “What are you doing tonight, Bram?”

  I blink a few times. Is she propositioning me? Because if she is, I’ll clear out my schedule for the entire weekend. I’ll devote the next forty-eight hours to convincing Julia I’m the man for her, a mature man, the kind of man who can take care of her in more ways than one. I’m different than the guy she knew in college.

  I’m fucking refined, successful, worthy of taking her out on a date, something I wasn’t in college.

  But maybe she sees it now, maybe she sees me.

  “What a
m I doing tonight?” I lick my lips. “Depends, what are you—?”

  “There you are.” Rath comes up from behind me and takes Julia in his arms. “Mr. Armstrong wants to introduce you to his son.” Bram looks me up and down. “Nice tie, man.” And then he turns back to Julia, assessing her. “Are you drunk?”

  “I had two drinks.” She sways.

  “Christ.” Rath drags his hand over his face. “Are you going to be able to meet Mr. Armstrong’s son? He’s been waiting all night to have a drink with you.”

  “I know. I know. He told me on the phone the other day.” Julia blows out a long breath and then stands tall. “Okay, I have this under control.” As if she’s my own damn sister, she pats me on the shoulder. “Have a good one, Bram.”

  And with that, she takes off with Rath who throws a smile over his shoulder, and a silent thank you.

  A fucking thank you?

  Thank you for what? Showing up to his godforsaken fundraiser that only reminded me of the reason I tried to hide the feelings I had for his sister years ago?

  Shit.

  I spin away from them, an inner rage starting to boil deep within. Like a storm forming in the sky, my body starts to hum, my irritation taking over.

  In need of a drink, I stalk to the bar where I find Roark, hand on a woman’s hip, tumbler in front of him. From the corner of his eye, he spots me as I order a glass of Scotch.

  Hands gripping the edge of the bar, head bent forward, I count to ten.

  “Dude, you look like you’re about to plow ya fist through a wall.”

  Ragged with my movements, I tilt my head in his direction. “A wall, your face, whatever comes first.”

  “Me?” Roark smirks and points his finger at himself. “What the hell did I do?”

  “Annoy me.” I take the Scotch from the bartender and down it in one gulp. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and order up another. “You fucking annoy me.”

  * * *

  This is useless.

  Staying here, acting like I’m trying to work when really, I can’t focus on one damn sentence, instead rereading it over and over again.

  I need to call it a night, a lonely, pitiful, Friday night.

  From my pocket, I pull out my phone and check for any messages from Roark. He always texts me on Friday nights, letting me know where he’ll be drinking.

  And just like I thought, there are at least five texts from him.

  Tempted, I scan through them and consider the possibility of going out tonight, getting lost in a bottle of Scotch, drowning my sorrows at some shit pub that captured Roark’s Irish heart for the night.

  But as my fingers hover over the text, I can’t seem to get myself to text him back, to agree to going out. Instead, I open up my Google Maps app and type in ice cream into the search bar.

  Yeah, fucking ice cream. That’s the level I’m at right now.

  I want a giant bowl of special ice cream with toppings and whipped cream and cherries. I want a place that has Fruity Pebbles, a place where I can pile on a cup of peanut butter cups and not be judged. A few places pop up on the screen and I click on the one with a funny name—I don’t want a fancy creamery—because I want to be eating ice cream with kids. I want them to see what a pathetic man looks like, a man who’s given it the old college try and failed, because maybe my short-handedness will encourage them to try harder later on in life.

  Outside my office, I hear the faint sound of footsteps trailing down the hallway until they stop in front of my door. Did Linus forget something? I wait for him to walk through the door or at least knock, but when he doesn’t, I question what the hell he’s doing.

  Why is he just standing there? I can only see a shadow of a person through the door, so I know they haven’t left.

  I walk to the door, and without giving the person on the other side of the door a chance to run away, I rip open the door. To my surprise and frankly, utter shock, Julia startles back, clutching her purse to her chest.

  “My God,” she says, startled. “You scared me, Bram.”

  Unsure why she’s here, I try not to get excited as I stuff my hands in my pockets. “You were the one standing outside my door after work hours. If anything, I should be the startled one.”

  “Well, you didn’t have to tear the door open like that, like some sort of psycho killer.”

  “You didn’t have to stand on the other side, hovering and not saying a word,” I counter, a smile pulling at the corner of my lips.

  “I was”—she bites her bottom lip and tips her chin up—“I was thinking.”

  “Thinking about what?” I rock on the back of my heels, trying to be as casual as possible even though my insides are churning with nerves.

  She toes the ground with her sexy-as-hell red high heels and answers coyly, “You know . . . things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Things,” she snips.

  “Okay.” I nod and look her up and down. “Well, is there anything I can help you with?”

  Persistently stubborn, she shakes her head. “Nope.”

  “Good to know.” I thumb over my shoulder. “If you don’t need anything from me, I’m just going to head back to my desk.”

  I turn to walk away when I hear a cringe in her voice as she says, “Wait.”

  No matter how hard I try, I can’t hold back the smile now. Spinning on one heel, I face her. There is a nervous jitter in her stance and a worried crinkle in her brow, but those eyes, they’re fixed on me, opening up, letting me see straight into her soul.

  “I, uh”—she twists her hands together—“I wanted to thank you . . . for the mug.”

  I take a step forward, closing the space between us so there is only a foot separating our bodies. “You didn’t have to come all the way here to thank me. I would have accepted a text.”

  “I thought it would be better to tell you in person.”

  “Yeah?” I tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Why’s that?”

  Her eyes drift to the side as her teeth roll over her bottom lip, enticing me, making me want to tug on her plump lip with my own teeth. It’s been a week since I’ve tasted her, and it’s driving me insane, being this close and unable to do anything about it.

  So desperately I want to be able to move past this awkward tension between us, bring her into my arms, and finally take her on a date, but I need her to make the next move. I don’t want to push myself on her. She knows where I stand, and now I need to know where she stands.

  Her beautiful, wary eyes bounce back and forth, searching mine. Her hands nervously twist in front of her, just like my stomach is twisting inside me. I want to shake her, tell her to spit it out already, to end my misery, but instead I wait patiently as she slowly licks her lips and takes a deep breath.

  “I’m . . . I’m nervous, Bram.”

  Reassuringly, I gently rub my hands up and down her arms. “It’s me, Jules. There is no reason to be nervous.”

  “That’s exactly why I’m nervous, because it’s you.” She nibbles on the side of her cheek, her eyes turning away for a brief moment. “I never thought . . .” She pauses to take another deep breath. “I never thought you’d like me.” Before I can protest, she continues. “I was the nerdy girl, the one who wore turtlenecks to frat parties. I’m still that girl. And you, Bram”—she locks eyes with me—“you were the guy everyone wanted to be with, be near, and be like. You’re still that man. We’re total opposites, we don’t make sense, there’s probably a one percent chance that we—”

  I press my finger against her lips, silencing her. This beautifully intelligent girl, how can she be so dense when it comes to following your heart?

  “What does your heart say?”

  “What?” she asks, startled.

  I press my hand against her heart, my palm resting just above her breast as my fingers curve over her shoulder. “This pounding I feel, the rapid beat of your heart, I want to know what kind of SOS message it’s sending to you right now. F
orget your brain. Tell me what your heart is saying.”

  On bated breath, I wait, hoping with everything inside me that she chooses to break down the guarded wall she’s erected for years and give us a chance. Give me a chance.

  Eyes wide, her teeth press into her bottom lip right before she takes a step backward, causing my stomach to drop in defeat. She takes another step away, her arms sliding out of my grasp and in the last moment of desperation, I slip my hand into hers.

  A look of fascination falls over her face as she stares at our connection, the way our fingers twine together, how her hand fits perfectly in mine—doesn’t she see it? How we’re meant to be?

  It’s time for one last attempt, my final Hail Mary.

  On a deep breath, I pull on her hand and twirl her into my chest where I wrap my arm around her waist—her back to my front.

  She gasps in my arms as I lean my head forward and press my lips against her ear. “What is your heart telling you, Jules?”

  Quick intake of breath.

  The pounding of her heart.

  A rolling of emotions swirls in my stomach.

  I move our connected hands across her stomach, pulling her in even closer, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her breath. Just give in. I can feel it vibrating off her—the indecision—the yearning to say yes.

  With my nose, I run a path from her ear to her jaw and then back up her cheek.

  She quietly groans and to my surprise, runs her free hand up my neck to the back of my head where her fingers thread through my hair.

  Pressing.

  Pulling.

  Digging.

  My eyes threaten to roll back in my head from her touch, the way it turns me on . . . begs for more.

  My voice low, like a distant grumble of thunder in the distance. “What do you want, Jules?”

  Hand still pressed into my hair, she lightly turns in my arms, her head bending back to get a good look at me.

  She stares into my eyes.

  I blink a few times.

  She moistens her lips.

  I lick mine, my heart thudding in my chest.

  Her hand squeezes mine.