I’m washing my hands to rid them of the sticky residue when he sidles up next to me. His hip is pressed against the edge of the counter, and he has his arms crossed over his bare chest. I try to ignore him, feeling the heat of his sharp, perceptive gaze, until I’m flicking my fingers to rid myself of the excess water on my hands, and our eyes meet.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he answers with an innocent shrug. “I’m just wondering why you haven’t called. Or texted.”
“Because I don’t have your number,” I say matter-of-factly.
“Didn’t seem to stop you before.”
The silver chain around his neck glints in a stream of light coming in through the kitchen window. The sight of it sends a shiver down my spine, just as I remember the feel of it looped around my index finger. The power I wielded using it to drag him closer to me. The slickness of it caught between Andrew’s teeth while he flicked at it with his tongue.
“Well, you wouldn’t take my money the last time I saw you, so there’s really no need to press on the issue, right?”
“Still.”
“We already talked about this.” I take a step backward, moving away from him and leaving behind my need for a drink to head back outside where it feels safer. My need to get awayfrom Andrew, and this dangerous territory of a night that can’t be repeated seems to trump the need for a drink at this moment.
“Yeah, that we’re friends.”
I shoot him a pointed glare. “And?”
“And friends hang out,” he informs me. “They say hi, meet up for dinner, make plans?—”
“We aren’t that kind of friends,” I interrupt.
His arm stretches, and he takes a step closer to me. The palm of his hand presses into the hard surface of the counter where my waist is resting, and it brings him closer to me. His face is inches from mine, and the fiery heat in his eyes followed by the slight tic in his jaw brings his voice down several octaves. “Then what kind of friends are we?”
My neck stretches backward, a pitiful attempt to create some space between us. “Come on, Andrew,” I argue weakly. “I thought we agreed that—that it was a mistake.”
He nods. The up and down motion of his head is purposeful, full of resolve while driven by something that he’s holding back. “I changed my mind.”
A scoff I don’t mean to huff comes out of nowhere. “What do you mean you changed your mind? You don’t want to be friends?”
“Or maybe I want to redefine what the word ‘friends’ means to us.”
“We aren’t doing a ‘friends with benefits’ kind of thing if that’s what you’re suggesting,” I emphasize with a sizable weight of determination.
His face softens, and a sweet smile spreads across his face. I see a little bit of his hardness unthaw, and I appreciate that it didn’t take more fight from him. “I know,” he says gently. “I just like hanging out with you.”
“You like hanging out with me?” Curiosity threads its way into my heart, and I suddenly feel so bad for spending theentire day either ignoring him or shooting him flat looks of indifference.
He nods. “Look, I heard what you said. It was a mistake, and it won’t happen again. I had fun at the bar, and when we had dinner the other night.”
“Okay?” I ask, not really understanding where this is going.
“And…I kind of want to do it again. Just as friends.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he answers sincerely.
“So sex is off the table?” I ask, needing that validation.
“Well, it isn’tcompletelyoff the table, but?—”
I cut him off with my hands thrown exasperatedly in the air. “You can’t take anything seriously,” I mutter under my breath.
“No, no,” he protests. His hands instinctively move to grip my arms, and when I look at them, he immediately holds his palms up in the air. A silent truce. “Fine. Sex is off the table. And…Teeny doesn’t have to know.”
