Jesus Christ.
“Sorry about him,” I mumble, handing Michael a piña colada slushie and feeling slightly mortified.
But he just grins as I rest against the wall, watching people dance. He leans beside me, his gaze on Henry, chatting to one of our other neighbors.
After a while, Michael leans closer to talk to me over the music. His breath is hot on my ear, sending goosebumps scattering across my skin. “How’s the romance writing coming along?”
Heat creeps up my neck. It’s coming along quite nicely, thanks to me channeling all the lust I’ve felt for him onto the page. In fact, it’s been anextremelyproductive writing week. “It’s, uh, good.”
“I don’t suppose you’d let me read it?”
“God,no.”
His eyes glint as he appraises me, like he’s enjoying winding me up. “Why not?”
“Because…” I search for a reason I can actually say out loud. Because it’s literally a blow by blow—pun intended—account of everything I want to do to him. Because it’s the only way I can think of right now to not go crazy with desire for him. “It’s embarrassing,” I say at last.
“It can’t be that bad.”
I smirk. Yes, it can.
“Come on,” he urges, flashing me a flirtatious grin. “I might like it.”
My cheeks glow. “You might,” I mutter, turning back to look across the room, and beside me I hear him chuckle.
We stand side-by-side, drinking and watching the others dance. And I decide if Michael can needle me relentlessly about my romance writing, I can give him a hard time too.
“How’s the historical novel coming?”
He takes a long sip from his cup, avoiding my gaze. “It’s not.”
“Why not?”
“I told you why. My agent doesn’t want me to write it.”
I face him squarely, the alcohol giving me confidence. “And I told you to write it anyway.”
His eyes swing to me. “You did.”
“So do it. Just for fun. For you.”
He scrubs a hand over his beard, a smile peeking around his mouth. “And since when are you telling me what to do?”
“I—” I bite my lip, trying to ignore the electricity crackling between us, trying not to say something I shouldn’t. If I thought I was having fun at this party before he arrived, I was wrong. Since he got here I’ve felt alive, buzzing, drawn to him by a magnetic pull that’s impossible to fight. It’s not the alcohol, it’shim. It’s always him.
I open my mouth to tell him exactly this, when I spot Geoff and Agnes peering at us from across the room. Geoff leans close to whisper something to Agnes, and the spark inside me fizzles out.
What am I doing? I shouldn’t be over here, flirting with Michael. We agreed to be friends and I’m behaving like this. Drinking or not, there’s no excuse.
“Um, I’m just going to mingle for a bit,” I mumble to Michael. I weave across the room to where Agnes is nestled on the sofa with Geoff perched beside her. “You two okay?”
Geoff grins over his drink. “How’s Sexy Michael?”
“What?” I glance at Agnes but she just sips her drink as if she hasn’t heard. “Geoff,” I mutter, giving him a subtle cut-it-out motion.
But not subtle enough, apparently, because Agnes says, “Don’t worry about me, dear. Your friend Geoffrey has already filled me in on everything.”
“Everything?” I repeat, my gaze darting back to Geoff. I told him about the kiss at Rockefeller, and the fact that Michael was prepared to wait until I found out what was happening with this job opportunity. IthoughtI’d told him all that in confidence, but trust Geoff to make a beeline for Agnes and spill his guts.
