“Cozy huh?”
“Don’t get any ideas, Rhodes.”
“Well, lead the way, Adams. I’ll try to keep the ideas to a minimum.” He finally offers the bags. “I’ll wait here for you.”
I take them, careful not to touch him, though it still feels like we did. “Five minutes.”
Nolan’s grin kicks up half a notch. “I’ll time you.”
I roll my eyes and head up the steps, pulse quickening with each one.
Once inside, I dump the bags into the fridge, don’t even bother taking the contents out, and release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
What the hell just happened? Nolan Rhodes—steak thief, account pirate, living, breathing hot as fuck problem—is standing on my block, waiting for me to grab a drink with him.
Voluntarily.
I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror as I pass and immediately double back. Yikes. My hair’s a windblown mess and there’s the faintest sheen of sweat on my collarbone—not the sultry kind either, the drippy, hiked uphill in the heat of summer kind.
After tugging the elastic from my hair, I give it a quick brush until it falls into something closer to intentional waves. A swipe of deodorant. No two. A tiny spritz of perfume. Lip gloss. The bare minimum, I tell myself. Not for him. For me. Because I look like an alley rat who wrestled another for a baguette.
I open the closet. My hand hovers over a black top with a plunging neckline that saysI didn’t plan thisbutalso, yes I did.I eye it. I eye my reflection. I eye the clock.
“I’m not changing for a man,” I mutter. “Especially notthatman.”
Cut to: me, changing into the black top anyway.
As I’m slipping my lipgloss into my purse, I catch my reflection onemore time. “Don’t do anything stupid, Adams, like kiss him,” I mutter, then leave and lock the door behind me.
And with that, I head back down, pretending I’m not about to meet the human embodiment of temptation for a drink around the corner.
Nolan’s still there when I step outside, leaning against the brick like he belongs to it, like Queens is a stage and he’s been waiting for his cue. One foot crossed over the other. Thumbs scrolling over his phone screen.
His gaze finds me and slides from my neckline to my heels with no shame and enough reverence to keep it from being a crime.
“Alright.” I brush past him, pretending there’s zero heat blooming across my chest. “Let’s go toast to our mutual talent.”
“Ruin and sabotage?” he drawls, falling into step.
“Exactly.”
His head tips, that half-smirk catching fire under the glow of the streetlamp. “Can’t wait, Adams.”
The wine bar is tucked into the corner of an old brownstone, all exposed brick and low lighting. The air is cloaked in warmth and red wine and whispered conversation. A string of Edison bulbs trails overhead like the last remnants of a forgotten constellation. The whole place smells of roasted garlic and candle wax.
I slide into a booth by the window while Nolan heads to the bar, his silhouette cutting clean through the candlelit crowd. His shoulders flex under his t-shirt as he reaches for his wallet, and I try to ignore the way every woman within arms reach turns to look at him.
After a minute or two, he returns with two glasses of deep crimson. “Tempranillo,” Nolan says, setting one in front of me like he’s unveiling a rare gem. “The bartender said it pairs well with tension and rivals who secretly want to make out.”
I blink. Once. Twice. Then I snort. “Wow. Okay. That’s a line.”
“Is it?” He takes a seat, one brow arched like he’s genuinely unsure. “Felt more like a public service announcement.”
I pick up my glass, mostly to hide the way my face is doing weird, traitorous things. “Ido notwant to secretly make out with you.”
“Mhm.” He doesn’t even flinch.
“I don’t,” I insist, sipping to cover the sudden dryness in my throat.
