by Lili Valente
“That’s right. I forgot you two had moved in together. Bet that makes you want to keep drinking, huh?” Laura reaches back, putting an arm around Libby, hugging her much shorter sister closer as she not-so-subtly tries to steal Libby’s martini.
Libby, who I suddenly realize is looking very un-Libby-like in a tight black tank top and a pair of leather pants that cling to her curvy thighs, huffs and swats Laura’s hand away. “Enough! Stop using displays of affection to try to steal my drink.”
“Why? It worked last time,” Laura says, grinning wickedly.
“Well, it’s not going to work this time. I’m keeping my martini.” Libby narrows her eyes, which are ringed in heavy black liner and some silver glittery stuff that emphasizes how enormous they are. It’s a look that’s way more rock-star than kindergarten teacher and also decidedly…odd. For her, anyway.
I can’t remember the last time I saw Libby wearing makeup or tight clothing. She’s a “layers of linen draped around her until she looks like an adorable bag lady or a hippie pirate” kind of girl. I’m used to the Libby who wears ruffly dresses, clogs, and crocheted sweaters, and totes her knitting bag with her everywhere she goes.
This new look is so unexpected that I’m distracted long enough for Laura to snatch my scotch right out of my hand.
“Hey, give that back,” I say, scowling as she dances out of reach. “It’s an open bar, psycho. Go get your own scotch.”
“But it’s more fun to steal yours,” Laura says. And then, with the gleeful giggle of a woman who is going to be very hungover tomorrow morning, she turns and flees into the throng of dancers writhing to the music, tossing, “Come get me when it’s time to break and enter! You know you want to,” over her shoulder.
Libby sighs heavily, and I turn back to see her watching me with that same anxious expression, making my heart lurch. “I don’t want to talk about Sylvia,” I say, cutting her off before she can ask.
“Okay,” she says, letting me off the hook far more easily than I expect her to. “But can we talk about something else? Something kind of…private?”
“Um, sure.” I do a quick scan of our immediate surroundings. Aside from a couple making out in the shadows about ten feet away, we’re alone. Everyone else is either out on the dance floor, queued up at the bar, or lounging on the couches near the fire pit on the other side of the patio, soaking in the view of the city.
“Thanks.” Libby smiles nervously as she lifts her glass. “Just let me down a little more liquid courage first.”
“All right,” I say, wondering who this woman is and what she’s done with my sweet, rarely drinks more than one drink, doesn’t own a stitch of black clothing, would never leave the house without putting on a bra Libby.
I really don’t think she’s wearing a bra under that lacy shirt. And I really can’t stop staring, trying to solve the bra or no-bra mystery, and I’m swiftly becoming way too fixated on Libby’s breasts for my personal comfort.
“Maybe I should get a drink, too.” I start for the bar, needing a moment to pull myself together, when Libby puts a hand on my arm.
“I’m sorry,” she says, but I have no idea what she’s apologizing for, only that her touch feels different than it did before. As different as the Libby I’ve known since she was a kid is from this seriously sexy woman standing in front of me.
Chapter Two
Justin
Libby pulls her hand away, fiddling with the stem of her martini glass, and the flash of heat her touch inspired vanishes. I shake my head, certain I must have imagined it. I’ve known Libby forever. She’s like a little sister to me. It’s probably just the alcohol on an empty stomach catching up with me.
“I tried to keep Laura from ordering a third martini,” Libby continues, cluing me in as to why she’s sorry. “But she swore her tolerance was better than it used to be.”
I arch a brow. “And you believed her?”
“Good point.” She laughs. “Though to be fair, you should have known better than to invite her to a party with an open bar.”
“I did,” I say with a grin. “But I did it anyway. Neither of us can be trusted to make good decisions. You know that. It’s one of the reasons we’re friends.”
“Partners in crime is more like it.” Libby shakes her head as she brushes her glossy brown hair over her shoulder, bringing my attention back to that wicked little tank top.
Jesus, it’s tight.
I force my gaze back to her face—the only part of Libby that I should be staring at—as she says, “Promise me you won’t let her up on the real roof, okay? There probably aren’t any guardrails up there, and she needs enclosed spaces right now.”
“I promise.” I lean against the wall behind me as I do another quick scan of rocker Libby. “So, what’s with the new look, Libs? Did you get attacked on the street by one of those makeover shows?”
“No, I wasn’t attacked on the street.” She rolls her eyes, shrugging as she takes a sip of her martini. “I just thought it was time to try something new.”
“Well, that’s certainly new.”
Her brow furrows. “I take that to mean you don’t like it?”
“No, I like it. I mean…” I trail off, unsure what to say. On any other woman, I probably would like the outfit—what’s not to like about boobs out for show and tell? But this is Libby. “It’s just different.”
“So? What’s wrong with putting myself out there a little on a Friday night?”
“Or a lot out there,” I tease.
“Fine. Or a lot.” She stands up straighter, rolling her shoulders back, making certain shapely, lovely things even harder to ignore. “I may choose to wear modest clothing most of the time, Justin, but I’m perfectly aware of the power of showing a little skin. I’ve had boobs since the fifth grade, you know.”
I blink. Hard. “Are you drunk, too?”
“No, I’m not drunk.” She sets her drink down on the bar table beside me with a huff. “Though I’m starting to wish I were. Are you trying to make me feel ridiculous and insecure?”
“No!” I lift my hands in surrender. “Sorry, I’ve just never heard you say the word boobs before. Let alone…” I start to motion toward her breasts, but think better of it and play it off by running a hand through my hair. “Yeah. You just caught me off guard.”
“But I’m right, aren’t I?” She steps closer, holding my gaze.
I frown. “Right about what?”
“Be honest.” Her voice goes soft as she lifts one nearly bare shoulder. “You’re having to work hard not to look at my chest right now, aren’t you?”
“No,” I lie, even as my traitorous eyeballs flick down for another quick glimpse of the creamy swells rising above the black lace of her shirt.
“Ha! See there!” she crows, pointing a triumphant finger at my rapidly heating face. “See! I knew it! I knew you were trying not to look!”
“It was the power of suggestion,” I say defensively, wishing I still had my scotch. I could really use something to hide my lying mouth behind. “It’s like when someone tells you not to look directly at the sun. As soon as the words are out, you can’t help looking right at it.”
“No, you can’t help looking right at it. Most people have the common sense not to do things that are going to damage their retinas.”
“Are you saying I have no common sense?”
“Are you saying my breasts are like the sun?” she counters, stepping so close I can feel the heat of her body and smell her Libby smell rising in the air around me.
I take a deeper breath, realizing for the first time that Libby smells good. Not simply good as in clean and inoffensive to the nostrils, but good as in I would like to know what she smells like after she hasn’t showered in a while. I would like to smell the curve of her neck after she’s fresh off a run, to pull her sports bra up and over her head and let my tongue explore the sweat-damp valley between those incredible, way-more-than-a-handful—
“I need a drink.” I
cut the thought off before it—or the erection swelling behind the zipper of my jeans—can fully form. I refuse to think those kinds of thoughts about Libby. It’s so wrong that wrong isn’t a strong enough word for it.
I’m trying to think of a better word, something appropriate for things forbidden, disturbing, and a little embarrassing, when Libby puts a hand on my arm again, curling her fingers into the cotton of my dress shirt.
“Can we talk about the private stuff first?” Uncertainty creeps back into her gaze. “I’m afraid if I wait, I’ll lose my nerve and never say what I came over here to say.”
I swallow hard, fighting the urge to bolt. “What did you come over to say?”
“I have a favor to ask.” Her teeth worry her bottom lip in a way that makes the newly aware of Libby part of me wonder what her mouth tastes like.
Fuck. I have to get away from her and get my head on straight before I do something stupid like try to kiss her and ruin one of the best friendships I’ve ever had.
I’ve never even thought about dating either of the Collins sisters, no matter how nice they are to look at. They are my friends, so close we’re almost family. I’m the guy who glares at their boyfriends at the annual holiday party our parents throw together and who makes veiled threats about pounding faces if those douches even think about hurting Libby or La. I’m the big-brother type, not the guy trying to scam his way into Libby’s pants. Or down her shirt. Or daydreaming about slipping my tongue between her lips while I cup her breasts in my hands and—
“A kind of strange favor,” Libby continues, derailing the smut train in my mind just in time. Thank God. “But the fact that you and Sylvia broke up makes it a little less strange, I guess.” She laughs nervously. “I mean, not that I was ever going to ask you to do something that would get you in trouble with your girlfriend. I’m desperate, but I’m not crazy. Well, maybe a little crazy, but—”
“Just spit it out, Libs.” Sweat breaks out beneath my shirt as I fight not to think about lips or breasts or giving Libby anything but a firm, friendly hug.
“Okay, fine.” She pulls in a breath and lets it out in a rush. “I need you to teach me about sex.”
My eyebrows shoot up and I’m pretty sure I would have spit out my drink if Laura hadn’t stolen it. “What?” I sputter, even though I heard her perfectly well. But hearing and believing are two entirely different things.
“Sex,” she repeats, her cheeks going pink. “And flirting and being sexy and not saying stupid things on the first date or the second date or the third date. All that kind of stuff. The stuff I’m clearly really bad at.”
“Um, I—” I break off with a choked sound. “I’m sorry, Libs, but—”
“I’m going to be twenty-five in three months, Jus,” she cuts in, a pleading note in her voice. “And I’m still shy and weird and completely hopeless with men. If something doesn’t change, I’m going to spend the rest of my life alone, crocheting bonnets for my cats and wondering what it’s like to have a real relationship.”
“You don’t even have cats,” I say, because I don’t know what to say to the rest of it. I know Libby doesn’t date much, but I had no idea she was so upset about it.
“I will by then. I’ll have so many cats I’ll barely be able to walk from my couch to the bathroom without stepping on one. And when I die of old age, the poor things will run out of cat food and end up eating my corpse.”
“Well, there are worse ways to go,” I joke. “I hope to go of old age myself, and once you’re dead you probably won’t mind—”
“Justin, please!” Her brow furrows and desperation creeps into her eyes. “Please be serious. I’m being serious. I need help and you’re the only person I can ask.”
“What about Laura?” I shove my hands into my pockets, wishing I’d run for it while I still had the chance. Before things got well and truly weird. “She’s good at flirting. I’m not sure about sex, because she’s my friend and thinking about her having sex is almost as gross as thinking about you having sex, but I’m—”
“Thanks a lot,” Libby interrupts, her bottom lip trembling as she reclaims her drink with a swift snatching motion that sends the liquid sloshing out of the glass. “It’s nice to know the thought of me in an intimate relationship with someone is that repulsive.”
“I didn’t mean it that way, Libs. I just meant—”
“It doesn’t matter.” She downs the rest of her martini in one gulp before setting it back on the table with a hard clink. “I never should have asked you for help. This was a mistake.”
“Come on, Libs, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” I reach for her, but she steps away, lifting a hand between us.
“Don’t. I can’t deal with a pity hug right now.” Her lips press together as she blinks hard. “Let’s just pretend this never happened, okay? I’ll find someone else to help me. Or I won’t. It doesn’t really matter, right? I mean, what’s another spinster kindergarten teacher eaten by cats?”
“Libby, wait,” I call after her as she turns and walks away, tottering in her too-high-and-stabby-looking-for-Libby-to-be-wearing heels.
But she doesn’t turn back, and now I feel even more like shit than I did before. Watching Libby storm away from me is much, much harder than watching Sylvia do the same. So hard, in fact, that I can’t let it happen. I follow her, weaving my way through the crowd. But when I get to the other side of the dance floor, she’s nowhere to be found.
And damn it, I feel like something’s been lost. Something necessary and special that maybe I’ve taken for granted.
Right then, I make a promise to myself to find Libby and do my best to help her out, no matter how uncomfortable it might be at first. Friends don’t let friends get eaten by cats, and Libby’s been my friend for too long for me to say no when she needs me to say yes.
Chapter Three
Libby
Stupid, stupid, stupid! How could you be so stupid?
Seriously, what were you thinking, stupid? Did you honestly think you would be able to pull this off? What is wrong with you?!
Loneliness is what’s wrong with me. I’m lonely and so desperate for a change that I’m willing to do things I’ve never done before. But asking Justin for help was clearly not the solution to my problem. All I’ve done is freak him out on his birthday and force him to confess that he is among one of the many, many men in the world who find it distasteful to imagine me in bed without my clothes on.
God, I’m never going to live that down. Never.
I’m so embarrassed I can’t lift my gaze from the floor. I push through the crowd with my chin tucked to my chest, hurry around the edge of the dance floor as fast as my insanely-high heels will allow, and swing through the glass door leading out of the private party and into Bobo’s public bar, trying not to hyperventilate with shame. But my cheeks are hot, tears are rising in my eyes, and my ribs are doing their best to squeeze my heart into a puddle of misery juice. All I want to do is run home, dive under the covers, and hide there for the rest of the weekend.
But I can’t leave. Laura is still out there, living it up, and I have to stay and make sure my sister doesn’t get on the wrong train home, the way she did on the Fourth of July, the last time she had more than two drinks. I may be terrible at flirting, partying, dancing, or doing anything else remotely cool, but I’m a good sister.
“A damned good sister,” I grumble as I slide onto a stool at the end of the bar. “You’re going to owe me for this one, La. Big time.”
I order a glass of white wine—happy to pay for a drink as long as it means I can hide out here in the near darkness of the ultra-modern bar, away from Justin and his super chic friends and his perfectly put together party.
I didn’t belong there.
Even in these trendy new clothes that Laura insisted are sexy, fashionable, and worth the four hundred dollars I shelled out to purchase them, I’d felt like a lump of mashed potatoes in a room full of artisanal organic salad. Yes, mashed potatoes can
offer sustenance, and are a cozy, comforting, familiar addition to any holiday meal. But compared to a fresh, crisp, perfectly proportioned salad with ginger zest and an antioxidant-packed dressing, they’re just lumpy, bland, and sad.
I am lumpy. Bland. And sad.
And I really wish I had ignored Laura’s assurances that after a few drinks and a little dancing I wouldn’t feel the chill in the autumn air. Then I would have a jacket with me to put on to cover up my stupid boobs and failure cleavage.
Stupid Boobs and the Failure Cleavage. It’s the world’s worst band name and I am the world’s worst at working what the good Lord gave me and I might as well convert to Catholicism, join a convent, and put myself out of my misery.
I’m about to give up on maintaining a stiff upper lip and sob openly into my wine, when a large hand touches the back of mine, and a deep voice asks, “Rough night?”
I glance over, seeing a vaguely familiar face.
The man on the stool beside me is nearly as large as Justin, with broad shoulders and thick muscles straining the fabric of his white, long-sleeved T-shirt. His short beard is neatly trimmed, but his dark blond hair is shaggy and hanging into his pale eyes. In the dim light of the bar, I can’t tell if they’re blue or green, but they’re intelligent, focused, and…interested?
Maybe?
A little?
God, why can’t I ever tell! What is broken inside of me that I’m incapable of figuring out when a man is flirting with me and when he’s just being friendly?
“A little rough,” I say, forcing a smile. “How about you?”
“Not the best, but things are starting to look up.” He grins, showcasing slightly crooked front teeth. The minor flaw only accentuates the elegant angles of his symmetrical, dimple-blessed face. The man is very good looking. And he’s talking to me, smiling at me, and making significant eye contact.
Empirically, the evidence points toward interest of a more-than-friendly variety, but I’ve been burned too many times to take anything for granted. This could just as easily be another opportunity for me to make a fool of myself as to practice flirting without saying the wrong thing.