But that’s okay. I’m returning to the swing of things. I’m on my game. As we wander through Chagalls and Matisses, I make witty comments, and all the women laugh, including Charlotte. When we’re out at the sculpture garden, I’m confident Charlotte and I are on solid ground, and we’re good enough at playing pretend.
Until Emily turns to her. “How long have you been in love with Spencer?”
Charlotte stiffens, and a burst of red splashes across her cheeks.
“I mean, were you attracted to him first before you started dating?” Emily continues. “Because you’ve been friends forever, right? So was it just one of those—”
“Emily, dear. Some things are personal,” Mrs. Offerman says, cutting in.
The teenage girl shrugs like this is no big deal. “I’m just curious. They went to college together. I don’t think it’s that weird to want to know if they were into each other back then.”
Charlotte raises her chin. “We’ve always been friends,” she says, then presses her hand to her forehead. “Excuse me.”
She takes off.
My mother glares at me, and all I can think is, she knows. Her eyes track Charlotte’s exit through the glass doors into the museum, and instantly my mother beckons me. I close the gap. She speaks low, out of the corner of her mouth. “She’s upset about something. Go after her. Comfort her.”
Right, of course. Super Fiancé to the rescue. Moms always know best.
I rush after Charlotte, through the door and down the hallway, catching up to her as she reaches the ladies’ room. I call out to her, but she’s got her hand on the door, and she pushes it open.
The door swings shut, and I stop.
For a second.
The hallway is quiet, far removed from most of the museum traffic. I push on the door and follow her in. She’s at the sink, splashing water on her face.
“Are you okay?” I ask tentatively as I walk over to her. There are three stalls in here, but they’re empty. Footsteps echo then fade down the hall.
She shakes her head. I reach her, place a hand on her lower back, and gently rub. She flinches, and inches away from me.
“Are you not feeling well? Do you have a headache from last night or something?”
The door creaks, and we freeze. It closes again, but I don’t hear anyone come in. The ladies’ room is silent; it’s just us.
She swivels around, grabs my shirt, and tugs me into a stall. “I can’t fake this.”
My shoulders drop. My limbs feel heavy. I’ve pushed her too far. “The engagement?”
“No. That’s fine. The pretend engagement is fine,” she says, staring straight at me. I’ve never seen her brown eyes so intense, like she’s about to scale a sheer wall. They don’t waver at all.
I knit my brow. “Then what is it?” I’m genuinely curious because if she’s not talking about our pretend relationship, I have no damn clue what it is she can’t fake.
Her grip tightens on my shirt. Her jaw is set. She huffs through her nostrils. I’ve never seen Charlotte like this. “What did I do wrong?”
“Last. Night,” she seethes. Each word has its own breathing room.
“What about last night?”
Her eyes float closed, but she looks pained. She takes a deep breath and opens them. The hard edge seems to fade somewhat. “You’re just pretending like it didn’t happen.”
“No,” I say quickly, trying to defend myself. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
But, in fact, it is what I’ve done all day. It’s exactly what I’m hoping to accomplish.
“It is what you’re doing. It’s what you did at breakfast. We just brushed it under the rug, and that’s not me,” she says, her tone fierce, reminding me of one of the very many things I admire about Charlotte—her toughness, her tenacity. “You didn’t let me talk, and I need to know. I told you I’m a shitty liar, and I meant it. I’m rubbish at lying. Even last night, when I said the thing about my dad being a nurse—that was still true.”
This is yet another thing I like about her—she’s so damn honest.
“Okay, so what do you need to know?” I ask, and nerves don’t just skitter across my skin. They fucking descend on me like flying monkeys.
The evil kind.
As if there’s any other variety.
She rolls her eyes. “Are you really this dense, Spencer?”
I hold my hands out wide. “Apparently I am. Why don’t you just spell it out for me? What do you need to know?”
She twists the fabric of my shirt in her hand, pulling me closer, and in a split second, the gap between us narrows. We were a foot away before—enough space to fend off the hormones. Now, they’re back. Swirling. Circling. Gripping. The temperature rises once more.
“Are you not attracted to me?”
My jaw falls. My head rings. She must be crazy. “Are you serious?”
She nods. “Answer the question, Holiday. Is that what the whole ‘let’s just focus on being friends’ thing is about?”
“You’re gorgeous. You’re beautiful. You’re stunning,” I say, rattling off compliments like a salesman on a street corner. “I also don’t want to ruin our friendship. It’s too important.”
She shakes her head. “You still didn’t answer the question.”
“I said you were beautiful.”
“You said that about the Hopper, too. Are you attracted to the Hopper?”
I swallow. I try to string words together, but all that exists in my head is the film reel of last night. Of what I did to her when I was home alone with my hand, and my fantasies, and all the fucking things I want to do with my best friend. Because I am wildly attracted to her—I’ve learned that during the last forty-eight hours. Like, stratospheric levels of attraction. Like, the power-an-airplane-around-the-world kind.
“Do I look insane?” I ask, and my voice is strained. I hate that she’s asking, and I love that she’s asking, and I am strung so goddamn tight right now because this whole day was supposed to be about us being friends.
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
“Yes.”
“No. You don’t look insane. You look annoyed. Just like me. So I guess we’re both pissed.”
“No. I’m not pissed,” I say, and I wrap my hand around hers and uncurl her fingers, then I slam her body against mine. “I’m not pissed. I’m fucking turned on. Because I’d have to be insane not to be attracted to you,” I tell her in a harsh whisper.
Her eyes light up like sparklers. Like I’ve said the one perfect thing. Her irises dance with mischief and joy.
“You are?” All that anger is stripped from her tone. She’s soft and feathery, and that voice wafts over me and makes me want her even more. Makes me want to hear her say other things in that voice.
“Yes.” I speak through gritted teeth. With my hand around her waist, I somehow yank her closer, then I drag a finger along her jawline. “But you’re not supposed to be attracted to your best friend like this. That's not how it works. I’m probably going to have to get checked into a facility to deal with the amount of attraction I have for you. I’ll ask them to remove it, and they’ll say, ‘Sorry, sir, it’s spread across your entire body and we can’t take it out.’”
Her smile grows wide. “Really?” she asks, but it’s hardly a question, more like a statement of wonder.
Now that she’s got me going, I won’t back down. It’s not in my nature. “Don’t make me prove it,” I say, egging her on.
Her eyes sparkle. “Prove it.”
“Challenge accepted.”
In seconds my hand snakes up her skirt, and she gasps when it registers what I’m doing. My fingertips climb up the soft flesh of her thighs, and when I reach her panties I flick my index finger across the cotton panel. They’re damp, and my dick does its best impression of the Empire State Building. I groan. Never taking my eyes off her, I slide one finger inside her panties. Her shoulders shake and my blood heats as I run that finger across her wet, hot,
slippery pussy. I bring it to my lips and suck off her wetness. She tastes like all my fantasies. This time, my groan echoes. It rumbles across the ladies’ room, and Charlotte trembles in my arms.
She watches me lick her off my finger, and this is the moment when there is no question. When everything is clear. She parts her lips, and says, “There’s something I want to prove to you, too. Tonight.”
“What is it?”
Before she can answer, the door creaks open. I break apart from her, and she smooths a hand over her shirt, then her skirt. Just so she knows, so there’s no fucking doubt at all, I bring my finger back to my mouth, and I suck it one more time. With my eyes locked on hers, I whisper, so fucking hot.
She shudders, and her lip is quivering. I brush my finger against her lower lip, then push it past her teeth. Instantly, she draws it into her mouth and sucks.
I stare at her, burning up everywhere. I take my finger out, nip the corner of her mouth, unlock the door, and back out. I give a quick wave to Mrs. Offerman.
She blinks, then fixes on a smile and waves.
I return to the family knowing one thing for certain—I have no clue what is going to happen when Charlotte comes over tonight.
15
When I open the door, I hand her a virgin margarita.
She thanks me and takes a sip as she walks inside my apartment. She’s wearing jeans, black flats, and a dressy gray tank top with some kind of lacy neckline.
Dammit. She’s camouflaged. I have no clue what her intentions are based on her outfit. Admittedly, I might be oversimplifying matters, but if she were wearing a short black dress and fuck-me pumps, I’d be a lot less in the dark. Then again, I’m in jeans and a black T-shirt, so I’m not sure my clothes spell Game for Anything to her, but I hope they do.
She dangles a bag of gourmet gummy bears. “Farm fresh,” she says.
“Locally grown, too, I hope?”
“Of course. Within a fifty-mile radius from farm to table.”
“Excellent. They better be small-batch made, too,” I say, mocking the food purists of the world, glad I can at least still banter with her.
She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “They’re from Brooklyn. Of course they’re small batch. Though I still don’t understand why if we can send a man to the moon, they can’t remove the green bears from the bag.”
“It is one of life’s great mysteries.” I shut the door and gesture to the living room. She walks ahead of me, and I can’t help myself. I stare at her ass as she crosses the hardwood floor to my couch. She gave me the license to ogle this afternoon, as far as I’m concerned.
“Along with the existence of gigantic asparagus,” she quips.
“I’ll never understand the need for oversize vegetables. But did you really go to Brooklyn to get gummy bears?” I ask as she settles into my beige couch. The sliding glass doors that lead to my terrace are open, and the warm June night filters in.
She shakes her head as she kicks off her shoes, and tucks her feet under her. “The store in Brooklyn that makes them opened another shop in Murray Hill. But they are locally-sourced, and not made with gelatin.”
“Which is a basic requirement in a gummy bear.” I join her on the couch, repeating what she’s said over the years—she won’t touch candies made with gelatin since gelatin comes from beef, and if she wanted beef in her candy she’d eat beef candy, and she’s not doing that. Because that’s just disgusting.
Which is why beef candy is not a thing.
I point to my laptop. “What’s it going to be? Netflix? Hulu? Castle? Will Ferrell’s latest? Rom-com? Spy flick? Sports Center to catch up on your baseball stats?”
She rips open the bag of candy, and pops a yellow bear into her mouth. It slides past her lips. Lucky bear. “How about Castle? Let’s watch that one with the Irish mobster.”
I know exactly which one she means, since we’ve watched nearly every episode together. I find it quickly, sending a silent thanks to, well, myself that I remembered to close out my porn last night. Fido wanders into the living room, arches an eyebrow, and meows. I’m sure in feline language he’s telling her what I did, but thank God, no one has created a Berlitz translation guide yet for cat.
We settle into the rhythm that we’ve perfected over the years. She’s at one end of the couch, burrowed into the pillows. I’m at the other, and the laptop is on the coffee table, streaming the show to the TV screen. We plow through half the bag of gummy bears, Charlotte sifting through the colors. I dive on the green-bear grenade for her. We down our virgin drinks, and at some point during the show, she puts her feet on my thighs, crossing them at the ankles.
A spark zips through me even from that, and I flash back to last night at the restaurant when she ran her foot along my leg. I briefly wonder if I have a foot fetish. I never thought I did before, but as my gaze drifts to her feet, and the candy pink toenail polish that I can’t seem to stop looking at, I realize I’ve missed nearly every word of Castle explaining to Beckett what he thinks is the motive in this episode’s murder.
I return my focus to the screen, but my awareness of her has leveled up, like I’ve had a shot of caffeine and now my senses are on Charlotte alert. She shifts her shoulders into the pillow, and I steal a glance, wondering if she likes to be kissed there. She brushes a strand of hair away from her face, and I want to know how much she likes having her hair pulled, if at all. Castle and Beckett are this close to finding the killer when Charlotte munches on a red gummy bear, and I become intensely curious as to how the cherry tastes in her mouth.
She pokes me in my belly with her big toe. I tense for a brief second, wondering if she can tell where my mind is and isn’t. But hers is so clearly on the screen, since she’s not looking away from our intrepid heroes.
I don’t get it—I was sure we’d already be naked. But then, I have no barometer for reading this woman anymore. Except, based on my astute powers of observation, I’m pretty damn sure she wants a foot rub. I reach for her foot and start massaging it, having done this many times before.
As I work my way from her arch to her heel, I try to avoid the naughtiest thoughts involving her feet. No, not the ones where I suck on her toes, because I don’t have that kind of foot fetish. But the ones where I hold her ankles in my hands, spread her legs, and pound into her.
My dick transforms into a two-by-four. The fucking turncoat. I swear, if my dick were a person, he’d be a narc, always spilling my secrets.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
She snaps her gaze to me. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. All out of my drink,” I say, grabbing the glass from the table so I have an excuse to get some breathing room. “Just keep watching. I’ll be right back.”
“It’s okay. I’ll wait.” She hits the pause button, and that’s the last thing I need—her scrutiny as I walk to the kitchen to refill the glass I hardly want. I drag a hand through my dark hair and stare at the pitcher of margarita mix that’s mocking me with its innocence. Fuck it. I grab a tequila bottle from the cupboard and deflower my drink. I bend down, yank open the freezer and root around for more ice.
For my face.
A few seconds in the icebox cools me off.
I return to Charlotte and raise my glass. “Spiked mine,” I admit, then take a long, thirsty gulp.
She holds out her hand in a grabby gesture. I give her my glass, and she drinks some. “Mmm,” she says.
I set the drink down, and we return to the show as they solve a murder I couldn’t care less about right now. I’m not sure what to make of this afternoon’s heated moment in the bathroom at MoMA, but then I’m starting to accept that I don’t know what to make of a lot of what’s been happening between Charlotte and me over the last few days. I wish I did have a device to read her mind, because I’d really like to know what she wants to prove to me.
When the credits roll, she turns to me. “Want to watch Nick’s show?”
No! I don’t want to watch
TV! I want to undress you and lick every inch of you. But you’re acting so damn normal, it’s throwing me off.
I shrug. “Sure. I’ve only seen every episode twenty times. Which one do you want to see?”
“I’ll find it,” she says, leaning across my legs to grab the laptop and toggle through Comedy Nation’s streaming app to find The Adventures of Mr. Orgasm. Soon enough, the familiar theme music begins, and so do the adventures. I close my eyes and let my head fall back into the couch cushions when I realize which episode she picked.
It’s the one where the woman has misplaced her orgasm. She hasn’t had one in a year, and she has to hire Mr. Orgasm to track down her missing climax.
It’s hilarious, and Charlotte laughs incessantly through the show, and I have a sneaking suspicion what she is trying to prove by acting like we’re just good buds when we both know we’re dying to do the deed, because she wants it as much as I do. The clues have been in front of me all along, and maybe I’ve been dense up until now, but I’m not anymore. I also don’t think I can wait any longer to find out if I’m right.
I reach across the couch and hit pause on the show. The din of a siren carries from somewhere else in the city, mingling with music from the bar down the street. My home has its own noise. The hum of possibility. We are teetering on something. Something I shouldn’t want. Something I want desperately.
“What did you want to prove? You said at the museum you wanted to prove something to me.”
She straightens up on the couch and sits cross-legged. “That we can be friends,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Okay. And did we prove that somehow tonight?”
She nods, looking pleased. “Yes. We ate gummy bears, and drank margaritas, and watched TV, and did all the things we’ve always done.”
“Why did you want to prove this?”
“Because I’m going to proposition you,” she says, speaking as directly as if she were going to offer me a job. “As you may know, it’s been a while for me.” She pauses and meets my gaze so I know what she means. I do. Oh yes, I do. I nod. “And apparently, I’m quite attracted to you. Go figure.” She shrugs, as if this is a big surprise.
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