But God, I’ll keep them for as long as she lets me.
Hey, with these masks we’ve got going on…maybe this is more likeA Midsummer Night’s DreamthanRomeo and Juliet?
I pull up two houses down from hers and park, heart pounding like a war drum, and kill the engine. The windows are glowing warm in the afternoon light, and I see a shadow pass behind the curtain.
She’s waiting for me.
And I know I should turn around.
But I knock anyway.
One soft knock.
Then two harder ones.
And I wait to see if she’ll open the door.
And ruin me again.
The door swings open.
And there she is.
Barefoot, hair down, wearing one of those little tank tops that clings to her like it was custom-made for sin. And the panties.The panties I sent her.
Blue lace. No shorts. No bra.
Just her. All curves and attitude and eyes that flicker with something I can’t quite name.
She leans against the frame like she’s not the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen.
“Took you long enough,” she says, voice light, teasing, and looking down at her wrist.
I swallow hard. “You wore them.”
“You told me to.”
I glance down, jaw tight, cock twitching with interest. “Didn’t think you’d actually listen.”
Her smile deepens. “Guess you don’t know me that well after all. Maybe I kind of like playing your little games.”
I step forward, my hands itching to touch her but I don’t—yet. She turns, hips swaying as she leads me inside like she’s not completely wrecking my sanity with every step.
“Drink?” she calls over her shoulder, heading into the kitchen.
“Sure,” I say, voice low.
She pulls out two glasses and grabs a bottle of bourbon, some sweet tea, and a sprig of mint from a little jar by the sink.
“I’m making Gold Rushes,” she says, working with confident, practiced hands. “My mom taught me when I was seventeen. Said if you want to survive the South, you need a good bourbon cocktail and a fire escape plan.”
“I like her already,” I murmur, watching her work.
At that moment I realize that for all the hate between our families, I know nothing about her parents on a personal level.
She finishes the drinks and walks them over to the couch, nodding for me to follow. I do, and we sink down side by side, the cushions dipping beneath our weight. Her leg brushes mine—intentional or not, I can’t tell.
She hands me a glass, and I take it. The drink is amber, cold, kissed with lemon and something a little sweet. Southern hospitality in cocktail form.
