I broke my stare with the back of Micah’s head as he headed out for the night, and found myself pinned by Céleste. “Of course. We live together. I see him every day.”
“So do I now. What’s up with that?”
I ignored her and ducked into the storeroom.
She followed me. “Something’s happened between you, hasn’t it?”
“Nope.”
“Liar. Look at you. You’re practically glowing.”
“Am not. I’m my usual sardonic and cynical self, thank you very much.”
“You’re neither of those things, especially when it comes to that hunky football player out there.”
“Ex-football player.”
“Semantics.” Céleste stepped closer to me, getting up in my personal space and waving a gelled fingernail in my general direction. “Did you sleep with him?”
“What? No!” At least, not in any sense that didn’t involve actually sleeping. Micah was still king of the spontaneous blowjob, and I was working hard at perfecting the art of taking him apart with my hands, but he didn’t seem in a hurry to move things along, and I wasn’t brave enough to push him. I didn’t dare, and perhaps that was what bugged me so much. The fear of getting this far and scaring him off. Micah had always had a home in my heart, but in recent weeks, he’d put down roots and laid the foundations of a love I’d never get over if I lost him.
When. If. When. If.
I focussed on Céleste. “I haven’t slept with him.”
“But you want to?”
“Course I do. How is that news to you?”
“It isn’t, but something’s changed, and stop denying it or I’ll deck you.”
Unfortunately for me, I believed her. I moved to the door and checked the bar. It was packed enough to keep the rest of the staff occupied, but not busy enough that anyone would feel the need to come and find us—the perfect balance for a stockroom gossip.
I shut the door and stood with my back against it. “We haven’t had sex, but I guess you could say we’re dating? Kind of? Is that even a thing these days?”
“There must be an Instagram term for it, but you’re too old for that now.”
“I’m twenty-five.”
“Exactly. You’re not a teenager, so it doesn’t need a label. How you feel is more important than what you call it.”
“You know how I feel about Micah.”
Céleste leaned against a beer barrel. “I know you like him. What I don’t understand is how that’s escalated to him following you around like a lost puppy while you gaze at him across the bar when you’ve always given me the impression he’s not interested in you that way.”
“I didn’t think he was.”
“What changed?”
“Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.” I shrugged, devoid of the words to explain me and Micah. “I took him to my parents’ place after Valentine’s Day for a break. Stuff happened while we were there, and he told me he loved me a few weeks ago.”
“He loves you? As in loves you as a friend or wants-to-bang-your-brains-out loves you?”
“The second one, I think.”
“You think?”
“Yes. Jesus. Stop questioning everything I say. That part’s simple: he loves me, and I love him. It’s the rest of it that’s complicated.”
