“I’ll meet you both upstairs,” Thorne tells us, reaching for the coffee.
“Okay,” Lillianna says, getting up. She stops at the door. “Are you in for Saturday?”
“What’s happening?” Thorne asks.
“I wasn’t asking you. I was asking Ivy. But if you must know, next Saturday is dancing and dudes,” Lillianna jokes, making her brother scowl. “Three Pence will be at Tipsy. I’m taking Ivy.”
Thorne’s fingers tighten around his mug, knuckles whitening for a moment before he relaxes them. “Is that so?”
“Yup,” Lillianna chirps, glancing between us. I swear there’s scheming in her eyes, but is it for or against us?
My phone buzzes on the counter, screen lighting up beside my coffee mug. It's Dave.
Still waiting on that rain check. Name the place.
I reach for it, but not before Lillianna's eyes catch the screen. "Who's Dave?"
"Someone I know from when I lived here."
"Dave," Thorne mutters darkly. Huh. I'm surprised he remembers. I'd only mentioned Dave in passing that night on the train.
Lillianna's smile is slow and dangerous. "You should invite him to Tipsy."
I glance at Thorne. He hasn't turned around. Doesn't say a word.
I should. He's a complication I don't need. And I refuse to be one for him. "I will," I tell Lillianna.
Thorne sets his mug down with a little more force than necessary. But fuck him. I won't play the game of he-doesn't-want-me-but-no-other-man-can-have-me.
I pick up my phone and type back.
Saturday. Tipsy in Louisville. You in?
Dave's reply is immediate.
I'm in. Can't wait to see you.
Lillianna waves in our direction and leaves.
Amazing what a little "can't wait to see you" can do for a person's backbone. I face Thorne and ask, "Are you avoiding me?"
He sets down his mug, leans against the counter. “Yes.”
The word lands between us like a slap. I’d expected denial, deflection, or even anger, not brutal honesty that leaves me fumbling.“W—why?”
“Because I want to fuck you. I’m hoping distance will make the feeling fade.”
Heat floods my body, pooling low in my belly. My lips part, and my nipples tighten beneath my thin cotton shirt. I should be offended by his crudeness, but instead, I’m fighting the urge to cross the kitchen and press myself against him.
“Has it worked so far?” I rasp.
“No.”
The single syllable hangs between us, heavy with promise and bad decisions. I take a step toward him, then another. His eyes darken, tracking my movement like a predator.
“We should go upstairs,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady. “They’re waiting for us.”
He sets his coffee on the counter. “You go ahead.” His voice is rough, strained. “I need a minute.”
