She opens her eyes. There’s a certainty in her gaze. “That’s exactly why we need to continue being friends.”
* * *
Later, when I’m alone, I wonder if I’ve been friend-zoned. And then I decide I shouldn’t be asking myself. I should ask her. I send her a text.
Gavin: Was that a friend-zoning?
Savannah: Did it feel like a friend-zoning?
Gavin: I have no idea.
Savannah: Do you want to be friend-zoned?
Gavin: I think I made it clear that I don’t want that.
Savannah: Let’s consider it a temporary measure.
Gavin: So I can eventually get a zoning change?
Savannah: Maybe. :) What zone are you trying to get into?
Gavin: I thought that was abundantly clear tonight. I want to get into the end zone with you.
Savannah: And I thought you were the music guy. All of a sudden, you can’t stop with the sports analogies. :)
Gavin: Sports analogies seem to work well in this case.
Savannah: Yes, so let me be as clear as a fifty-yard touchdown pass into the end zone—I don’t just want to sleep with you.
Gavin: Allow me to be as clear as a game-winning home run—I don’t just want to sleep with you either.
I re-read the text, and it feels like one of the truest things I’ve ever written. To anyone.
But I also know that I need to prove myself to her. That’s why I send one more text.
Gavin: How about a game of bocce ball this weekend?
Savannah: I thought you’d never ask.
12
Gavin
As I toss the ball along the lawn, I ask her more questions, diving into all the things I don’t know about her. I know a lot already, but there’s so much uncharted territory too. I ask about her family, her mother, her aunt Ellen.
“This may shock you, since I’m not a traditional gal, but Aunt Ellen is—very much so—and I adore her. She’s this sweet, darling old lady, and she loves to crochet,” Savannah says, a lightness in her tone as she talks about her family.
“Is that why you know how to crochet?” I ask after she throws the ball.
The look she gives me brims with curiosity. “How did you know I know how to crochet?”
“Was it a secret?”
She shrugs, a little impishly. “I don’t go out and advertise it.” She whispers, “It’s not very Brooklyn hipster.”
I pat her shoulder, taking advantage of any chance I get to touch her. “Aw. Don’t worry. Your Brooklyn hipster cred is still good with me. Crocheting is super retro.” I loop an arm around her waist and pull her close.
She arches a brow. “Is that friendly?”
I hold up my free hand in surrender. “Seems completely friendly to me.”
“It’s not making me think friendly thoughts,” she whispers.
I grin. “Excellent.”
“You’re being bad,” she says, but her tone is playful. “But let’s get back to the topic. How did you know I like to crochet?”
I grab another ball and send it down the grass. Then I turn to her, admitting, “I spotted crochet hooks in your bag once. Thought it was kind of adorable.”
She acts shocked. “You little spy. And you knew they were crochet hooks instead of knitting needles or something else?”
“Um. Confession: I did. I was raised by the latest in a long line of crafty women.”
“Excellent. Crafty women are forces of good in the world.”
“I’d have to agree,” I say, as she defeats me for the twentieth time, it seems. “Also, I was not thinking friendly thoughts as I watched you throw that ball.”
She rolls her eyes, but that feels like a good sign.
* * *
At the end of the friendly date, I walk her home again. I’m tempted to kiss her on the front steps of her apartment building, but I also am keenly aware I’m on a mission to show her that I listened. That we can be friends first.
The next weekend we see a new band, but I can’t say we stay completely in the friend zone at the club. There might be more touches than usual as the music thrums. She might put her arm around me as the band slides into a guitar riff that radiates in my bones. And when they’re done and we head to a nearby bar, I take her hand.
I glance down at our hands as we walk. “So how about this? Is this friendly?”
She chuckles. “I hold hands with my friends all the time.”
“You better not hold hands with any guy friends.”
Her expression shifts to serious. “Gavin, do you really think we’re acting like friends?”
I nod, maintaining a straight face. “I do. We’re acting like such good friends that I’ll let you buy me a beer.”
She nudges me with her elbow. “I’m not buying you a beer.”
“Hey! That’s what friends do. I’m just saying.”
“No, friends would go dutch.”
“Fine. We’ll go dutch.”
* * *
At the bar, the touchy, flirty vibe continues over beers, until she leans in close, a little breathy, a little frisky, and says, “If I have another one, I will probably grab your face and kiss you like crazy.”
A groan rumbles up my chest. I raise a hand as if talking to the bartender. “One more for the lady.”
She shakes her head, stands, and parks a hand on my shoulder. “I need to go or I’m going to do something I’ll regret.”
I want her to kiss me like crazy, but I don’t want her to regret a damn thing.
Once more, I walk her home. This time it’s even tougher to resist kissing her. To resist asking to go up. Instead, I ask a question. “Why would you regret what you might do?”
A deep sigh crosses her lips and her eyes flash with vulnerability. “I don’t want to be a rebound girl.”
Softly, I ask, “What do you want to be, Savannah?”
“I want to be more than a rebound.” She points her thumb at the door. “And on that note, I really need to go inside.”
As she heads inside and I go home, all I can think is she doesn’t feel like a rebound girl.
She feels like the complete opposite. The one that stays.
13
Savannah
Two months later, we’re out testing some new burgers at a place that offers fifty different flavors of sauces, including at least a dozen in the “fiery” category. Translation: my kind of place.
We opt for a sampler of burger bites, showing off our “I can hold my spice better than you” chops. I bite into one with red-hot jalapeño and smile as I eat the inferno.
He takes a chance with a ghost pepper burger, and even as a bead of sweat breaks out on his forehead, he remains stoic.
It’s adorable.
I love how tough he is about something so pointless but so damn fun.
I opt for the spiciest possible burger—a red chili style—and take a bite.
Oh, holy mother of fiery food.
Smoke forms inside my head. My tongue goes up in five-alarm flames.
I wave my hand in front of my face. I cough, and Gavin thrusts me a glass of water. I down it quickly. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“I think I’ve hit my limit,” I choke.
“Will you live though?”
Another cough bursts from my throat. “It’s debatable.”
A few glasses of water and slices of bread later, I’m alive and mostly well.
He straightens his shoulders and wiggles his brows. “So it’s safe to say I win?”
I narrow my eyes. “Grrr. Yes. That’s the spiciest thing I’ve ever eaten.”
He raises his hands in victory. “Behold the Spicinator.”
“You won, but I am not getting you a T-shirt,” I protest. “And I’m not crocheting you a blanket either.”
“That’s cool. I have bragging rights, and that’s what I wanted.” He inches a little closer to me in the booth. “Hey, do you know what the best way is to get rid of that spicy sensation?”
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Curious, I answer, “I don’t. What is the best way to get rid of an intensely spicy sensation?”
“You need to be kissed.”
A little shiver of pleasure spreads across my skin. “So you want to kiss away the residual red chili in my mouth?”
“I’m totally open to that.”
I laugh. But then I stop laughing. Because it’s two months later and we’re still doing this. We’re still being friends, doing all the things we’ve done before, working together, hanging out, and having fun.
When we leave the restaurant, I take his hand, something we’ve done a lot lately.
But this time, it feels vastly different.
He looks down at our hands, then back at me, his eyes flashing with promise. “Is that what friends do?”
I shake my head. “No, and friends don’t invite friends to spend the night.”
Interlude
Spencer
Told you so.
I mean, not to be cocky, but I called that from a mile away.
Fake dates? C’mon.
Been there, done that, have the wedding ring to prove it.
Still, there are plenty of pitfalls on the path from a fake date to a sleepover. It’s a slippery slope from the friend zone to the bedroom zone.
But hey, maybe they like it slippery.
That’s hardly the only tricky ground friends and lovers might encounter.
Coworkers too. I bet they face some very rocky terrain as the former blue alien billionaire must confront a thorny issue.
14
Enzo
I give my best smoldering look to the right of the lens.
The photographer calls out. “Nice. If you look directly at the camera, we will all melt from the intensity of your gaze.”
He is too kind.
A small smile tickles my lips, and the snap of the lens confirms the photographer captures that too. “Brilliant. You look great when you’re smiling.”
“Enzo looks fantastic when he smiles, and when he doesn’t smile, and every other time too.”
It’s the woman from the art gallery. The CEO of Wu Media and the most captivating woman I’ve ever met. I’ve only spent a few minutes in Valerie’s company, but I’m already enthralled. “I can give you a more serious look if you want,” I offer, since I want to please her.
“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” the photographer says.
“Yes, everything you’re doing is perfect,” Valerie adds.
I follow the photographer’s instructions as he captures more shots, trying desperately to keep my eyes off the gorgeous woman, even as she sings my praises.
“That’s going to position Wu Media incredibly well. My advertising team will be so incredibly pleased with this.”
“Your team will be satisfied. Is that so?” I say when the shooting stops and the photographer steps away to grab a coffee.
Valerie meets my gaze, adding pointedly, “Yes, satisfied.”
“And what about you, Valerie?” My question is suggestive, playing off the last word she said.
She’s quiet at first, as if she’s schooling her expression, then she asks in a most professional voice, “What about me?”
I arch a brow. “What would it take for you to be satisfied?”
“Oh, I’m a very difficult woman in that regard,” she says, keeping that cool, composed tone.
Hmm. Perhaps I read her wrong at the gallery, but I don’t think so. One more shot.
“I would be up to that challenge.”
She closes her eyes, takes a breath, and then opens them again. “This can’t happen. We can’t happen. I hope I’m not being presumptuous in saying that.”
That’s what I want to hear and what I don’t want to hear at all. “You’re not being presumptuous, because I want little more in the world than for this to happen. But why can’t it? Do you not let that happen here in your country?” I ask playfully, as if I’m unfamiliar with her customs.
She laughs, and the sound is so seductive and sensual. “Oh, no, we love it when that happens.”
“Then why can’t we happen? You and I had an instant connection when we met, didn’t we?”
“Oh, we certainly did,” she says in nearly a whisper. “Too much of one.”
“There is no such thing. So then, if we both feel that same pull, why not?” I have to know. I must understand the barriers.
She straightens her shoulders. “It’s because I’m head of this company and you’re a contractor. If word got out that we had a dalliance, it would be terrible for me.”
All the air rushes from me, knocked out by the perfect sense of her point. “I see. That makes me terribly sad.” But I made my way out of the slums. I am a determined man and determined to find a way to her heart. “But perhaps we could be friends.”
“Friends?” she asks as if she’s tasting a new dish, something foreign but perhaps something she finds enticing.
“Friends,” I say, low and smoky, then make my true intentions clear. “It is a thing that people do when they enjoy spending time with each other but they don’t fuck.”
Her eyes darken.
“You like that idea?” I step closer, not to the point of impropriety, but close enough that I see the goosebumps dusting her skin. “You like it when I say ‘fuck,’ don’t you?”
Her shoulders shudder, but then she seems to center herself. “Of course I do. I like it when you say anything to me. But that is my point. We can’t happen. So I have to walk away.”
She spins on her heel and leaves, making me more determined than ever to see her walking toward me someday soon.
15
Valerie
A few weeks later, there’s a knock on my office door, and Sadie pops in. “You received an invitation from Highsmith Associates. Private auction. All the proceeds go to charity.”
My eyebrows rise. “What charity? And what sort of artwork?”
“It’s an organization that provides college scholarships in the United States for children of immigrants.”
I nod approvingly. I know something about that cause. Sadie rattles off the names of the artists, and they all delight me, especially when she mentions Hunter Edmonds, a rising star in the art world.
“Daniel at Highsmith wanted to personally invite you. He’s only extending the invitation to a few premium buyers, he said—those who love art and doing good. Someone gave him your name as a collector who’d want to attend.”
She gives me the time and the date, and even though I’m swimming in deals and partnerships, I know I’ll go. For the cause, and for the art.
* * *
I put on my best black dress and make my way to Highsmith, where I take a paddle and head to the front row. Moments later, the man I walked away from at the gallery arrives and sits next to me, smelling like the ocean breeze and looking like he just stepped out of a magazine shoot.
Because he probably did.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I muse.
“What a surprise indeed,” he says, all cool and sexy.
I shoot him an inquisitive glance. “Are you here to bid on the art?”
He gives a laid-back shrug. “Why else would I be here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you are correct. For that, and to work on the friendship, of course. I had a feeling you’d enjoy this auction.”
“And that’s why you arranged for an invite?”
“Did I do that?” he asks playfully.
I shoot him a you’re so naughty grin. “Are we working on a friendship, Enzo?”
“Yes. If friendship entails a little friendly bidding on art, can’t we? I bet you’ll enjoy the thrill of the chase.”
“I bet I will.”
The auction begins, and Enzo raises his paddle, making the opening bid when a Hunter Edmonds goes on sale. When I bid higher, he keeps going, lifting the paddle and elevating the stakes. He glances at me. “I bet you’d enjoy other uses for paddles.”
I g
asp, even as sparks race across my skin. “You’re a filthy man.”
“But am I wrong?”
I square my shoulders. “I’m not going to tell you.”
“Valerie,” he chides, “that’s not friendly.”
“I didn’t think it was a friendly question at all,” I say, but I’m reining in a dirty grin.
He affects a most innocent expression. “I only meant it in a friendly way. As one friend inquiring about what the other likes.”
I point at the painting. “What I would like is to acquire that Edmonds. For the cause, of course. And for my wall.”
“Then I will make it so.”
And he makes the bid so ridiculous, so over-the-top, so absolutely grandiose that even the huntress in me must acquiesce.
* * *
When the auction ends, he asks the auctioneer to wrap it up and then he brings it to me. “Consider it a gift from one friend to another.”
“Before I can take it,” I say as I put a hand on his arm, “are you saying this because you want to be friends with me or because you want to take me to bed?”
“You underestimate yourself,” he says. It’s a growl, masculine and carnal.
“I hardly ever do that.”
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