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“Ugh, yes.”
Placing her black heels next to the couch, she steps onto my cream floor rug, and I know what she’s feeling. It’s cozy, almost as much so as the couch. When I moved into this apartment last year and had it decorated, comfort was as important to me as design. I knew I’d spend plenty of late nights sitting on that couch.
“Sorry, I don’t have moscato here.”
She puts her hands on her hips and turns to me. So fucking hot. At the restaurant, I wanted to reach across the table and kiss her. In the car and then the elevator, I nearly did. But something stopped me.
We’ll undoubtedly cross the line from friends into something more—we’ve been dancing around it all night. But like I told Hayden, dipping my toes into this pool means I’ll get drenched.
I respect Chari, and her brother, too much for anything else. And yet, I know it probably won’t work in the long run. No one can keep up with my lifestyle. Am I a fool for wanting to try?
“That’s fine,” she says, reminding me of my quest to get her a drink. “Surprise me.” She turns toward the wall of windows, looking out again.
“I’ve got you,” I say, pulling out a bottle and filling two glasses with my brother’s homemade limoncello, not sure how much longer this will stay platonic.
“Should I sit over here?” she asks, gesturing toward the couch.
“Sure.” I cap the bottle, flick off the kitchen lights, and switch on the fireplace. It roars to life.
“Oh!”
“Better?” The skyline lights up even more now that the interior’s dark save for the fire. I hand her the glass and sit, effectively answering Chari’s question. Which is safer than what I wanted to say. Sitting on my lap is probably not the best idea if we’re going to take this slow.
Chari smells inside the glass. “Tris’s limoncello?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
She sips, and I watch her face pucker up. Adorable. I’ve seen that face before, and it brings back a cascade of memories.
“Remember the night of your twenty-first birthday?”
She looks at me like she wants to kill me. Though we’re sitting too far away to touch, the heat between us renders the fire I turned on mostly pointless.
“Parts of it.”
Laughing, I say, “If you’ll remember, someone tried to tell you twenty-one shots of cinnamon liquor was not a good idea.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t pat yourself on the back too hard. You’re the one who took me to your dad’s pizza place at three in the morning to give me a nightcap of”—she lifted her glass—“this.”
Time to start fessing up. I have a lot to tell her, might as well start dropping a few truth bombs now.
“If you recall, we opened the pizza joint just so you could fill your stomach before you went to bed. And I believe Tris asked me, and not the drunk birthday girl, to try the limoncello, when you snatched the glass out of my hand.”
She takes another sip. This time, her taste buds are ready, so no sour face.
“Also, you didn’t actually do twenty-one shots.”
Chari makes a face, not unlike the one she pulled after her first taste of limoncello. “Yes, I did.”
People pay millions for the view in front of us. But it’s nothing compared to what I’m looking at. Legs crossed, hair tossed back, she looks like she belongs there, sipping limoncello on my couch.
Maybe she does.
“No—” an endearment is at the end of my tongue, but our situation is confusing enough, and I settle for her name, “—Chari, you didn’t.”
I sip my own drink, silently thanking my brother. This stuff is top-notch.
“You had, I don’t know, maybe ten. And that’s when your brother and I started filling your shot glass with beer.”
