"What's wrong?" His hands were already reaching for me, checking my temperature, my pulse. "Is it a migraine? Too much wine? Should I—"
"I'm fine."
"You're lying." He stepped closer, caging me against the sink. "Your tell is that little line between your eyebrows. What happened?"
"Patricia happened."
Something shifted in his expression—understanding mixed with something darker. "Serena—"
"She fits, Brad. In your world. She speaks hockey and medicine and probably knows which fork to use for the fish course."
"There is no fish course. This is Wrightwood."
"You know what I mean."
"No, I don't." He moved closer, close enough that I could see Patricia's lipstick smudged on his collar. "Explain it to me. Explain why you think Patricia matters when you're the one who has my kid asking if you can adopt him."
"He didn't—"
"He did. Yesterday. Asked if you could be his mom 'for real.'" Brad's voice went rough. "You're the one sleeping in my house, wearing my clothes, making Finn laugh until he can't breathe. But sure, let's discuss Patricia's surgical credentials."
The air between us turned electric, dangerous.
"That principal from Wrightwood Primary has been circling you like a shark all night," he continued. "Called you 'luminous.' Theo's been body-checking him every time he gets close."
"He has?"
Brad's jaw worked. "Man's got a PhD and keeps touching your elbow."
"That bothers you?"
"Maybe. I don’t know." His voice cracked on the last word. " We're friends. Housemates. Whatever."
"Right. Whatever."
The space between us evaporated. Maybe I moved first, maybe he did, maybe we just collapsed into each other like stars dying. But suddenly his mouth was on mine and nothing else existed.
It wasn't a kiss—it was demolition. His hands tangled in my hair, mine fisted in his shirt, and we kissed like we weretrying to crawl inside each other's skin. He tasted like whiskey and terrible decisions. I bit his lip and he made a sound that should've been illegal.
Someone laughed in the hallway. We broke apart, both panting like we'd run a marathon.
"Jesus," he breathed.
"Too much champagne," I said desperately.
"Right. The champagne." He was already backing away. "We should—"
"Forget this happened."
"Completely."
We were both such terrible liars.
Theo materialized around the corner like the world's most inconvenient fairy godmother. "Patricia's got her hands so far down your—" He stopped, taking in Brad's destroyed hair, my smeared lipstick, the guilty distance we'd inserted between us. "Oh my God, finally."
"Nothing happened," we said in unison.
"Sure. That's why Brad looks like he went through a car wash and Serena's got that freshly-ravaged glow." He grinned. "Patricia's going to stroke out."
