by Sara Ney
“They are. Want a bite?”
“No.”
But Brooks hasn’t moved away. Hasn’t let go of me. Hasn’t stopped staring at my mouth.
What is he doing? It looks like he’s going to kiss me, but since I’ve been awkwardly eating, this certainly isn’t the moment to get romantic for the first time.
I’m not thinking straight, because Nan plied me with wine in the hopes that we would both make questionable decisions. Nan wanted us to end up in bed, shifty matchmaking grandmother that she is. She’s a sneaky minx who loves romance, who would love nothing more than to see me settled down with the love of my life.
And Nan has got it in her head that the love of my life is Brooks.
The alcohol has gone to both of our heads a bit. Here we are, standing like two fools whose lips are about to touch, and suddenly there Brooks is, bending his head and leaning in for a kiss. Wait—what?
What is happening?
I want to jerk back to look at his face; surely he knows what he’s about to do? And with whom? You don’t just kiss your friend. Friends don’t just plant one on the other person out of the blue. You don’t take them to romantic parks and go on leisurely strolls.
Fine. Maybe you do.
But he is kissing me, warm tongue mingling with my mustard, ketchup, and hot dog mouth, and could he have chosen a worse time for this? Really, Brooks? Just after I’ve eaten two hot dogs? Kind of gross. Even I can’t deny that.
He does not care.
I’m tempted to apologize, because I wouldn’t kiss him if he were the one who had just scarfed down an entire hot dog, but I think better of it. Decide to enjoy the moment despite the circumstances.
Warm, warm lips. Gentle but firm, planted over mine. And if I had to describe it, I’d say more than anything, it’s a nice kiss, considering the situation. Nice. Pleasant. Lovely. Words he wouldn’t love hearing, but true nonetheless.
Eventually he pulls back, removes his hands from my body a short few seconds later. Steps back and regards me, breath leaving his nose in quick puffs.
I let out a sigh. “Well.”
Brooks nods. “Glad we got that out of the way.”
Out of the way? “Have you been thinking about doing that?”
“Kind of but not really? It seemed like a good thing to do at the time.”
“At the park while I’m eating a hot dog?” I laugh, side-eyeing him before balling up the garbage in my hands and stepping toward a nearby waste bin. Toss the crumpled silver wrapper into the trash and glance at him standing there. “You coming?”
The whole thing—the kiss—was just…strange.
Strange, but typical and fitting—for us, anyway. We can’t seem to do anything like normal humans.
We make our way back through to the other side of the park, one of my hands buried in the pocket of his coat, the other in my own.
16
Brooks
I kissed Abbott.
I kissed her.
It was short and unexpected, but sweet. Gross and meaty, but sweet, and oddly appropriate.
What can I say? The moment felt right.
And now it’s official: I love a seventy-year-old grandma and I ain’t even mad about it. Okay, perhaps love is a tad strong a word considering Nan is more than twice my age and married to another, far more successful man, but love can be felt in different ways. What I feel for Nan is familial, not romantic. I can love her if I want to.
I felt included today, enveloped in the Margolis family fold. Nan seems to have roped me into what appears to be a not-so-subtle version of Operation Get Abbott Married Off.
Nan’s attempts, albeit obvious to everyone, haven’t gone unappreciated (except maybe by her granddaughter). Her antics are, at the very least, entertaining. They are to me, anyway. Abbott? Not sure how she feels about it, but let’s assume it grates on her nerves.
I regard Abbott on the curb, wind picking up, thrashing her beautiful ponytail into a frenzy as she lurches forward toward the approaching yellow taxi cab. I lunge faster, grabbing at the handle, besting her. Goal: open the door first, forgetting that, for today, I am the gentleman.
I am taking the lead.
The last thing I need is her taking the dominant role.
I acted like one through lunch, amusing Abbott with stories, using the few manners I was taught—and the ones picked up in movies and books—to impress her.
We both know the efforts are pointless.
Traffic is on our side on our return from the park to our apartment complex; in short order we’re in front of our building, laughing as we stumble out of the cab, the driver shooting us an agitated look through the dirty plexiglass partition.
I slide him a twenty and tell him to, “Keep the change.”
I’m in a great mood and feeling generous.
His eyes go wide with appreciation as I slam the door behind me and join Abbott by the elevator banks, the button already glowing. When the gold doors glide open, Abbott leans on one side of the car, I lean on the other, and—is it just me, or is there sexual tension in here? Real tension, not the kind left over from sharing a chaste kiss.
Wait…is that a half-mast boner in my pants?
Shit.
I catch her eyes sliding up and down my torso, resting briefly on the crotch of my slacks before traveling up my chest, over my shoulders.
“Are you objectifying me?”
She purses her lips. “Pfft.”
“Is that a yes?”
“That’s a no.”
What a sweet little liar. I smirk. “Right.”
“You wish.”
Some nights, yeah. “Hardly.” That came out rough, edgy, and far too unkind.
Her brow softens, expression changing. “Don’t be a jerk so soon after you kissed me.”
“Sorry.” Fuck, I’m losing my touch. Relax, buddy. Chill. Abbott is your friend—she’s just teasing you.
Friends, and not the kind with any sort of benefit. Which isn’t true, because she feeds me and gives me shelter, so basically I’m a stray cat, but one with a home?
“I am sorry.”
She doesn’t say a word, because it’s not okay, simply putting a hand up to quell my talking.
“Sorry.” There. Now I’ve said it three times like a complete schmuck.
“I get it. It’s fine.” Mood killed, she’s watching the numbers above the door change as we ascend to the higher floors.
Twelve.
Fourteen.
Seventeen.
At twenty, it dings and the doors slide open to the lobby of our floor.
I sweep my hand out. “After you.”
Her lips purse. “Thanks.”
“Movies, your place in ten?”
Abbott bites down on her lower lip, which I wonder about because it’s cherry red and pouty, yet no color appears on her teeth when she releases it.
Interesting.
“Bring chips or something. Don’t be a slouch,” is her reply, and all is forgiven. As she hikes her sleek leather purse onto her shoulder, she tosses her hair and I catch a whiff.
Damn, I always love the way she smells.
“Race you to the couch.” Why am I so competitive?
“Ha ha.” She throws a look over her shoulder. “You gave me back my key, remember?”
“You should probably give it back so I have one.”
“Why? We’re not in a relationship.”
“So?”
Another once-over by Abbott as she says, “When I start dating someone, he will have the only other copy of my key.”
“Other than Nan,” I correct her.
Her blue eyes sparkle before she presents me with her back. I watch her work the key into the gold lock above her handle. It inserts smoothly and turns, lock clicking out of place. Her slender hand grips the handle, pushing.
When she faces me again, her smile is soft. “Other than Nan.”
I bet she’s soft all over.
Abbott—not her nan.
Jesus, maybe I’m tipsier than I thought.
“Ten minutes. I’ll bring snacks.”
“Good. I shouldn’t be the only snack in the apartment,” she jokes. It startles me for a second; Abbott isn’t one to make innuendos, at least not of the sexual variety, and certainly not ones that are directed at me.
It’s a day for firsts.
“Do you have any single friends?”
The question comes out of left field, like a grenade dropping into the living room and exploding all over the fucking furniture, scattering debris everywhere.
My body goes tense, tortilla chip paused mid-bite, salt licking my tongue.
“Why?”
Abbott makes a noncommittal sound from the bottom of her throat that sounds suspiciously like a low chuckle. “I’m single and looking for love in all the wrong places, ha ha,” she jokes halfheartedly, popping open a can of Pringles and digging in with her entire hand. She chomps, which makes me glare.
Hello, I just kissed you—now you want me to set you up with my friends? Is she insane?
Crunch, crunch. “Is that a no?”
I scoff. “None I would introduce you to.”
“So you do have single friends?”
That’s a fuck no in guy speak. “One or two, but they’re douchebags.”
“If they’re such douchebags, why are you friends with them?”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, Abbott, but I’m also a douchebag.”
“You’re a wannabe.”
I feel butthurt about that. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You act like a hard-ass, but you’re actually a softie. All you want is to do your job and do it well, and eat good food.”
She leans back on the couch, propping her feet up on the coffee table and squeezing one eye shut, studying the Pringle she’s pinching between two fingers. “Why do guys always refuse to set me up with their friends?”
Because they’re too busy trying to sleep with you themselves. I refuse to explain the mentality of men. She doesn’t need to know the inner working of our brains, or that I refuse to hook her up with my single friends because I’m hoarding her.
The fact is: I like her.
Much to my detriment.
“What guy has ever refused your request to set you up with their friends?” Does Abbott even have any other guy friends besides me?
“My bruhther.”
Ah, that makes sense. “Your brother doesn’t count—no dude wants his sister dating his friends.”
And by date, I mean F-U-C-K.
“Then what’s your excuse?” Her head tilts. “Why are you cockblocking me?”
I almost choke on my chip. “Excuse me? I just told you—my friends are douches.”
She is still studying her Pringles and avoiding my intense gaze. “What exactly is it that makes them douchey?”
“For starters, they’re just like me.”
Abbott nudges me across the couch with her toe, an adorable smile tipping her lips. “Oh, now now, you’re not so horrible.”
She really has no idea how many women I’ve dated and ghosted in the past. How many one-night stands I’ve had because I was lonely. How I never take women for dinner, only for drinks, because I don’t want to waste money on someone I never plan to see again before I’ve seen them the first time.
Poor Abbott is under the illusion that I’m a decent guy, one of the good ones. She has no idea how jealous I am of other people who are happily coupled.
Has no idea I’m a liar. A fake. A fraud.
A new generation of gambling men, my friends and I want to win a bet more than we want to be in relationships, barring Blaine, who had to be railroaded into breaking up with Bambi Warner.
Am I using Abbott? Or are we friends?
Real, legitimate friends?
All I know is I am not giving up those Jags season tickets for anyone. I was an absolute fucking idiot for throwing them into the bet to begin with. The four-wheeler and timeshare I give zero shits about—I work hard enough to be able to afford that stuff on my own without needing to win them. Sure, it would be cool to save a few grand, but…not necessary.
Abbott chooses that moment to stretch out beside me. She changed into a cute matching set before I came over—tight pants and even tighter tank top—and I can’t help noticing she’s removed her bra.
“You’re right, I’m probably not horrible, but don’t assume you know everything about me, either.”
She sets down the can of Pringles and settles back in against the cushions, watching me intently from her side of the couch. Licks the salt off her fingers, one by one. “Is that a fact?”
“Don’t believe me?”
True, I haven’t been acting like my usual self since meeting her. A few weeks ago, I was asshole mixed with a whole lot of fucker and zero compassion for anyone but myself. These days?
I’m watching chick flicks and crying on the couch, sharing chips with the neighbor girl, and stroking her pussy…
Cat.
Her pussycat.
They say the right woman will do that to a man.
My eyes stray to Abbott’s tits.
I can see her nipples through her shirt, and if that wasn’t her intention, I’m the future king of England.
Abbott? No. No way would she do a thing so calculating.
Would she?
I shake the feathers out of my head, glancing over at her tits again, and catch her as she smiles into her cup of ice water. Blinks at the television, not meeting my gaze.
Bites down on her lower lip, licking at her thumb as if she can’t quite get the mess off.
Definitely wearing a threadbare tank top on purpose…
Awesome.
Now my dick is twitching, inconvenient for early afternoon on a Wednesday with no relief in sight. Jesus, it’s not even five o’clock yet—it’s not like I can waltz into her bathroom to rub one out real quick while she waits in the living room on the couch.
Not to mention, the damn cat hasn’t taken its eyes off me.
Desdemona McPussyPants is less trustworthy than I am.
I hiss at the cat and grimace when Abbott chastises me. “Leave the cat alone. She likes you.”
Lies. It’s all lies. The cat most definitely does not like me. I’m just waiting for the day Desi tears my balls off with her sharp kitty nails. Claws? What are those things called?
Abbott lifts an arm, resting her elbow on the back of the couch. “You know cats can smell when someone is a bad person. If Desi thought you were a douchebag, she would let you know.”
I stuff a tortilla chip in my pie hole and chew. “That cat wouldn’t know a villain if it flew through here wearing a cape.”
“She barely tolerates Nan, but she adores you. That’s saying a lot.”
As much as I hate admitting it, she’s right about the fucking cat. It really does like me, no matter how hard I try to make it stop. I don’t want or need that furball using my leg as an object of its affection. I don’t need it purring at me. I don’t need it meowing incessantly at the bathroom door when I’m trying to take a piss in private.
“I think you try to pretend to be a badass, but in reality you’re a nice guy.”
“No guy on this planet wants to be called a nice guy. Didn’t you get the memo? Nice guys finish last.”
Her face lets me know she doesn’t agree. “You hate the idea of being vulnerable so much you’re pushing me away.”
Suddenly, at her words, my chips go stale in my mouth. Taste like sandpaper. Still, it’s either chew and swallow or spit them out.
Spit. Or swallow.
Gulping the chips, I force them down with water, stalling.
“Vulnerable?” I scoff. “Please.”
“Well,” she begins, “I’m no psychologist, but you’re always in my apartment when you used to spend all your free time with your pals. Now you hang out here. With me. Except…you’re not interested in being romantic—until today, and
that kiss hardly counted because you didn’t really mean it.”
She only pauses to eat another Pringle, and I wait while she chews, having nothing to add.
“Do you know why you don’t spend as much time with your friends anymore? It’s too much work to see them. Why? Because you’re pretending to be someone you’re not. With me, you can be yourself. You feel comfortable and it’s easy here, not at that little dive bar you claim you love so much.”
My mouth falls open. Closes. “I’ll have you know, The Basement isn’t a ‘little dive bar.’” I use air quotes. “It’s a one-hundred-year-old bar that serves cognac and spirits.”
Abbott rolls her eyes. “Yes, yes, I know all about this fancy, dignified bar and its overpriced drinks and pedigreed atmosphere.” She fakes a bored yawn. “Incidentally, when was the last time you were at The Basement?”
I study my fingernails, the same way she does when she’s avoiding a direct stare. “I can’t remember.” One week ago? Two? Who knows—I’m an architect, not a timeline specialist.
“See?” She crosses her legs, bobbing a foot up and down, superior. “You used to go there a few times a month. And now…” She snaps her fingers, lithe body shifting on the cushions, smug smile curving her gorgeous lips.
Smug smile curving her gorgeous lips?
Shut the fuck up, Brooks. Stop waxing poetic about your neighbor. Go home, you’re drunk.
Man, she’s cute.
Man, she smells good.
Those tight pants…
I growl a bit.
“What’s that look you’re giving me?” Her stare is poignant, directed straight at me, while mine travels her torso.
Those boobs.
That stomach.
Even her fucking toes are adorable. I want to suck them, and I’m not even a toe guy. In fact, I hate feet.
“Brooks? Are you still drunk?”
“It takes more than a bottle of wine to keep me sloshed an entire afternoon, Abbott, though Nan tried her best.”
“Nan is seventy-five—leave her out of this,” she says defensively, inadvertently changing the subject.
A part of me wants her to question why I’m silently stripping her naked in my mind.
Maybe it will lead to something we’ll regret later.