Sarah leans toward Bash during a lull in their conversation, her voice lowered but still audible to me. "So what's the deal with the sourpusses at the end of the table? They look like they're attending a funeral, not a family dinner."
Bash glances at me, eyebrows raised in silent question. I nod slightly, I don't mind her knowing.
"It's a long story," Bash begins diplomatically.
"Long story short," I cut in, the wine making me bolder, "he's my ex who broke up with me to supposedly 'find himself' but was apparently finding himself inside Olivia, and now they're engaged." I take another sip of my Cabernet. "Six months after telling me he 'wasn't ready for commitment.'"
Sarah blinks, processing this information. "Well, that was actually a pretty short story."
"The cliff notes version," I agree, and we all laugh.
The waiters place our entrées before us with a flourish. Everyone falls into that comfortable rhythm of forks clinking and approving murmurs as the first bites disappear. Mom throws her head back laughing at something Dad says, her shoulders looser than I've seen in months. Dad gestures wildly with hishands, recounting his first tumble down the bunny slope, his face animated with good humor. Mr. Harper's shoulders shake as he coughs, bourbon sloshing dangerously in his glass.
I slide my fork through the perfectly blackened chicken, bringing it to my lips. The flavors burst across my tongue, and my eyelids flutter closed, a small involuntary moan escaping me.
I open my eyes to find Bash's gaze fixed on my mouth, his pupils dilated, jaw tightened.
"Good?" he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble that wasn't there seconds ago.
"Incredible," I confirm, offering him a bite from my fork. He maintains eye contact as he takes it, his lips closing around the tines in a way that instantly recalls the shower earlier. Heat blooms across my chest.
I clear my throat. "How's yours?"
"Perfect," he says, but he's not looking at his plate. His knee presses against mine under the table.
The evening progresses with the easy rhythm of good food and better company. I'm on my second glass of wine, feeling pleasantly warm and increasingly aware of every point where Bash's body touches mine—his thigh against my leg, his arm occasionally brushing mine, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my knee under the tablecloth.
When the dessert menus arrive, Mom makes a show of deliberating between the chocolate soufflé and the crème brûlée.
"Charlie? Bash? What looks good to you?" she asks, peering over her reading glasses.
"Nothing for me, thanks," I say, suddenly finding it difficult to think about food when Bash's hand has inched slightly higher on my thigh.
"I'm good as well," Bash adds smoothly. He leans in close, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he whispers, "I'm waiting on my dessert for later."
The low rumble of his voice sends electricity racing down my spine, and I clench involuntarily, desire pooling hot and insistent between my legs. Thememory of his fingers, his mouth, the way he said my name when he came—it all rushes back in vivid detail. I shift in my seat, crossing my legs to ease the sudden ache.
"Are you okay, dear? You look flushed," Mom says, her brow furrowing in concern.
"Just a little warm in here," I manage, shooting a sideways glare at Bash, who sips his whiskey with feigned innocence. "And tired from earlier. The heli-skiing was amazing but exhausting."
"Heli-skiing," Ethan's voice cuts through the warm buzz of conversation. He's staring at me from across the table, his lips curled into that condescending smile I used to find charming. "I'm surprised, Charlie. Last time we were here, you wouldn't even try the black diamond runs."
I take another sip of wine, refusing to rise to his bait. "People change."
"Do they?" He raises an eyebrow, his attention shifting to Bash. "Or are you just trying to impress your new... boyfriend?"
The way he says "boyfriend" makes it sound like an insult. I feel Bash tense beside me, but his expression remains calm.
"Actually," I say, setting my glass down with precision, "I organized the heli-skiing trip. As a surprise."
Ethan's smile falters for a moment before it returns, sharper than before. "Well, well. The Charlie I knew wouldn't even leave the house without a detailed itinerary. She certainly wouldn't book a last-minute extreme sport."
"The Charlie you knew was trying to accommodate your fragile ego," I reply, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
Olivia places a manicured hand on Ethan's arm. "Honey, remember what Dr. Phillips said about managing your stress levels."
I nearly choke on air. He's seeing a therapist? That's rich, considering he always claimed therapy was "for people who can't handle their own problems."
