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Our eyes linger as we lift our cups to drink. Even after we set them back down, we don’t take our eyes off each other. My gaze flicks to his lips—I can’t help myself—and when my eyes meet his again, I watch as they dip to my lips too. The tension is delicious, and it’s everything I can do to stop myself from clearing this kitchen island and making his mouth mine again.
Instead, I take a sip of my drink. Ian mirrors me but takes a longer pull, practically chugging his drink.
“What number drink is that for you?” I try not to parent people when it comes to their drinking, but Ian doesn’t seem like the kind of person who drinks a lot, and it fires a particular signal in my brain, kicking my instincts into gear. “Did you eat today?” I ask.
“I had pizza rolls.”
“How old are you?”
His grin is goofy as he holds up all five fingers and two on the other.
“Checks out,” I say.
He holds out his cup to me. “Another, please?”
He doesn’t sound slurry yet, so I snatch his cup from him. “What do I look like—your drink bitch?”
“You could be.” He winks at me.
I roll my eyes but don’t fight the grin that sneaks up on me.
As I pour him another drink, I fight the urge to control how much alcohol I put in there.He can handle himself. He is a grown-ass man.
“Should we make the rounds?” I ask and tilt my head toward the living room.
“What if we just sat on the couch and talked shit about people?” he asks.
“Oh, I like that way better,” I say.
Normally, I’d like to walk around the room, say hey to people, and be the social butterfly I am, but tonight, hanging out with Ian sounds way better.
“You look fucking amazing, by the way,” Ian says, practically a whisper, as I walk past him and into the living room.
I glance over my shoulder at him and flash a small smile. “Why, thank you,” I say. My cheeks warm. I tell myself it’s just the alcohol and not his words, but even I don’t really believe me. I’ve had barely one drink, for fuck’s sake. There’s no way it’s the alcohol.
We find an open couch and sit next to each other. Even though the entire couch is open, we sit close enough that our legs touch. Ian sits all the way back, his head against the back of the couch, just inches from me. I almost scoot closer so he can tip his head onto my shoulder, but we don’t need any rumors about us circulating. Not for my sake but Ian’s.
“When did you get here?” I ask.
“I just came up here right after I left the theater.” He looks up at me meaningfully, a silent acknowledgment of the moment that split our relationship into the Before and After.
I look away in an effort to keep from kissing him—an unsurprisingly strong desire given what happened between us not a full hour ago. Of course I want to do that again. Of course I want more. How did he expect me to just go about my life likethat kissdidn’t just happen?
Ian and I both cringe at the sudden screech that silences the room. Only the dance music blasting up from the basement plays on.
“BIIIIIIITCHHHHH!” Dallas yells through the near-silence.
I throw my head back and laugh loudly, launching myself off the couch and into their arms. People resume their conversations once they realize it’s not a fight starting and it’s just me and Dallas acting up. Dallas holds me up for all of half a second before dropping my legs back to the ground. They slap my ass.
“Girl, what are you doing looking like the hottest little thing on this side of the train tracks?” Dallas gestures to my outfit. “Fucking slay, queen.”
I do a little spin, throwing my arm up and my head back. I run a hand over my neck and down my body in a sexy gesture.
Dallas and I do a few weird dance moves before Ian interrupts.
“Hey, I’m Ian. I don’t know if we know each other,” he says, scooting to the edge of the couch, his hand extended to shake.
Dallas offers him their hand like a princess, fingers down, awaiting a royal hand-kiss. Ian takes the bait and kisses their fingers. He is definitely not sober anymore.
