Even if we can’t be more than friends, he would be a good friend, I tell myself, forcing down the overwhelming disappointment that wells up inside me with Herculean effort.
And then his hand brushes mine.
Accidental. Probably.
Neither of us moves away.
My breath catches as his thumb shifts, just slightly, but enough to caress my knuckles.
Grounding, familiar.
For one suspended second, I think he might say something.
Instead, someone calls his name.
He steps back, regret flickering across his face. “I should… circulate.”
“Of course,” I say, even though I don’t want him to go.
Before he leaves, he leans in. “You’re doing great.”
I watch him disappear into the crowd, heart pounding. Do friends caress each other’s knuckles?
Chapter Seven
ETHAN
I shouldn’t have touchedher.
That’s the first coherent thought I manage as I force myself to step back into the crowd, looking for the guy who called my name. But he’s already distracted, both because he’s tipsy and because someone else has engaged him in conversation.
I walk toward the bar, the echo of her warmth still humming through my hand like static. One careless brush of fingers. One absent-minded stroke of my thumb over her knuckles.
I felt her inhale.
I felt myself hesitate.
And then, because I’m an idiot, I walked away.
I know it’s the right move. The only move I could have done without causing gossip that would get her in trouble with HR.
But why doesn’t feel like I made the right decision?
The party continues around us, loud and bright and aggressively festive. Someone laughs too hard near the bar. The DJ switches tracks, sleigh bells bleeding into a bass line that doesn’t deserve them. I nod at a few people as I pass, offer polite smiles, pretend I’m not acutely aware of where Liz is every second.
I am. My body is uniquely tuned to her frequency, and I know exactly where she is with no need for visual confirmation. I’ve experienced nothing like it before. It’s a little overwhelming, and a lot wonderful.
I take a drink I don’t really want and station myself near a high-top table, putting physical distance between us like that might quiet the tension curling low in my spine. My pulse is still off-kilter. My hand still remembers the exact shape of hers.
Get a grip.
This is a party. A work function.
Wednesday night masquerading as cheer because venues are cheaper and no one questions it anymore.
I can do this.
Across the room, Liz laughs at something Sara says, head tipped back just slightly. The blue dress catches the light when she moves, soft, understated, and utterly devastating. I’m not the only one who’s noticing. Other guys are throwing appreciative gazes her way.
