I imagine taking off her shoes. I’d sit her down on the couch and pull her legs into my lap, then unbuckle those little straps. Then I’d slip off the shoes and rub her feet. Her arches. Her ankles. Her calves.
“I had fun tonight, Drew,” Ally says as we ride the elevator up to the condo.
“Me too.”
“Do you have plans for tomorrow?” she asks casually.
“Not really.” The truth is, I can’t actually remember. I can’t focus on much beyond the fact that Ally looks like a million bucks and smells like peaches. And she’s standing less than a foot away from me in this tiny elevator.
The air between us feels charged, like a tiny spark would set things off.
It would be so easy to lean over and kiss her.
She’s been curious about how it would be between us.
But I turned her down.
The elevator reaches our floor with a ding, and we walk down the hall to my condo.
“Good night, Drew,” she says as soon as I’ve unlocked the door.
“Night, Ally.”
And just like that, she’s disappeared into her bedroom, leaving me to second guess my decision. If I’d answered her differently, I could be inside the room with her, watching her take off that dress . . .
No. I’d be tearing the dress off her.
I need to get out of this suit. I rush past Ally’s door, trying not to think about what’s happening on the other side of it. Then I leave my clothes in a puddle on my bedroom floor and hit the shower for some self-care.
Ten minutes later, I step out of the shower feeling a little better. I towel off, then slip on a t-shirt and boxers. There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep, so I bring my laptop into bed and log in to Netflix. I find a truly boring true crime show, but I’m still wide awake when it ends.
I’ve done the right thing, but the knowledge is deeply unsatisfying.
I close the laptop and stretch out in bed, hoping to find sleep. Not surprisingly, sleep eludes me, and I finally head to the kitchen for a drink of water.
And I find Ally sitting at the table, eating Hershey’s Kisses and drinking a glass of orange juice.
She looked stunning at the gala, but she looks even better now, sitting at my kitchen table in a white tank top and pajama shorts. No bra; I can see the outline of her nipples through her shirt. She’s washed off her makeup, and she looks very young and very beautiful.
And not very happy to see me.
“Hey, Drew,” she says flatly.
“Hey, Ally,” I say cautiously. “Can’t sleep either?”
“Nope.”
The clock on the microwave tells me it’s after one A.M. I pour myself a glass of water and join her at the table.
Ally keeps her gaze on her juice, refusing to meet my eye.
“What’s wrong, Ally?”
“Nothing.” She drains her glass of juice and carries it to the dishwasher. “I’m going to head back to bed.”
I stand to face her, because there’s clearly something eating her. “Come on, Ally. What’s wrong?”
“You really want to know, Drew?” She finally looks at me, and her blue eyes are flashing with emotions that I can’t interpret. Frustration, irritation, and maybe . . . lust?
