Page 49 of Entwined With You

“I’m the deluxe model,” I tell him. “And the deluxe model is perfectly happy to pick the mushrooms off.”

His brows rise. “Really?”

I nod. I’d much rather not—mushrooms are slimy and gross—but I figure that’s why forks were invented. And, honestly, in all the years we were together, I never let him order mushrooms on a damn pizza. It’s time to give the man a break.

Soon enough, we have our pizza. I’ve changed into my comfy shorts and a tank top, and he’s wearing sweats and a faded and tattered Guggenheim tee that I actually remember him buying. “This is nice,” I say, reaching for a slice as Mickey Rourke checks out Kim Basinger.

“We used to watch this every chance we got,” he says when we’re about halfway through the movie. He’s turned to look at me, and I feel my breath hitch. At first, I think he really means it when he says we. Then I understand he’s talking about him and Sabrina. A Sabrina who’s definitely not in the room with him.

“She told me,” I say. “She, um, liked watching it with you.”

From the way he laughs, I know he hears all the subtext. It was their—our?—foreplay. Confused teens living on the street and watching racy movies. Sometimes even watching in some poor vacationer’s house on those rare occasions when we lucked out and managed to break in.

When I reach for my wine, I realize he’s still looking at me and not the screen. I tilt my head, intending to say something funny, but instead my breath catches in my throat.

He looks away, but not before I see the heat in his eyes.

Please, I think, wanting this far too much. Please don’t let him think so much about Sabrina that he feels guilty.

A silence that feels heavy with possibility settles between us as we eat pizza, drink wine, and watch the rest of the movie. When it’s over, I shift my position on the sofa so that my back is against the armrest and I’m facing him. My feet are on the cool leather, my knees up, and my arms around my legs.

“We have a long day tomorrow,” he says.

“Funny how so many tasks pile up when you’re working as a criminal mastermind.”

His lips twitch. “Isn’t it just?”

“If you were asking if I’m tired,” I say, “I’m not.”

His eyes meet mine. They stay there. “It’s not that late.” He tilts his head, just a little. “Do you want to go out?”

I know him so well—or, at least, I knew him so well—but I still can’t quite get a read on him. Are we flirting? Dancing around a naughty proposition? Or does he really want to go out for a drink or a slice of cheesecake for dessert?

I have no idea, so I do the only thing I can do. I tell the truth. “No. I want to stay in.”

“All right,” he says. “We’ll stay here.”

The silence hangs awkwardly between us, and I’m overwhelmed by the insane urge to just blurt out everything. That I’m Sabrina. That I believe that he didn’t plant that bomb. That I’m sorry I didn’t believe it from the beginning. That I miss him terribly. And that right then, the only thing I want more than for him to be kissing me is for him to be naked beside me in his bed.

Of course, I say none of that.

It’s one of the ironies of life. I can be absolutely fucking fearless on the street. And yet when faced with a man I know used to love me, I revert to the awkwardness of a pre-teen.

Humans really are the most confusing of animals.

He watches as I take another sip of my wine.

“Don’t,” I say. “You’re making me nervous.”

“You have the prettiest mouth.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

He slides a little bit closer, then takes my wine from me, and puts it on the table. Then he brushes the pad of his thumb over my lower lip. And, honestly, that’s when I’m a goner.

“Is this okay?” His tone suggests that he knows it is.

“Yes.” My voice is a whisper. “It’s very okay.”