“Best decision you’ve made all day,” she declares. Then, with a sly smile, she says, “Second best if you count agreeing to watch reality TV.”
I huff. “I haven’t agreed to that yet.”
“Yet,” she emphasizes, that certainty once again appearing.
Our conversation is interrupted when our server returns and sets a stack of containers and a bag on the table. “Leftovers,” he announces. “And the owner was wondering if you wouldn’t mind taking a photo with him.”
I nod my agreement, stretching my hands out wide, then relaxing them. Sloane warned me they’d ask for a photo—they ask all the athletes and actors who come here—but it doesn’t make the request any less annoying.
“This is why I hate eating out,” I grumble once he’s walked away. And questioning every dish to make sure there’s no gluten isn’t high on my list of enjoyable activities, either. Although Kennedy sure as hell had no issue doing it for me. Sort of embarrassing, sort of nice.
Kennedy smiles and tips her wineglass back, finishing the last of it in one long drink. “Definitelynotwhat a girl wants to hear.”
I frown, confused by her comment. When the words eventually process, my cheeks flush.Jesus, get it together Cameron.
We don’t have to wait long for the owner to appear. He’s a short man with a ridiculous mustache. “Ah, the auction winners,” he says, gesturing for us to stand. “Come, come. We’ll take it by the lantern, yes? Good publicity—you support charity, we support you. Everyone wins.”
We move to the side wall where a colorful painting of the restaurant back in its speakeasy days hangs in a gauche goldframe. Kennedy slides naturally into place beside me while I hesitate a moment before wrapping my arm around her waist.
“Closer together now,” the server instructs.
With ease, Kennedy shuffles in, leaning into me more fully.
I can smell her perfume—a light and sweet scent, maybe vanilla—and her sweater is soft beneath my palm. With the way my hand spans the curve of her waist, I’m acutely aware of every point where our bodies touch.
“Beautiful!” The server snaps several photos and then shows us the screen. “I’ll email these to the charity organizers and post on our social media. Thank you both so much.”
Kennedy tells me she lives close by, so I insist on walking her home, despite her assertion that she can make it a few blocks without my “manly intimidation tactics.” As the night air cools around us and she chatters about the meal, about how this was worth every penny of the money—mymoney—she bid, about how it may snow tomorrow even though leaves still litter the ground, I’m grateful I pushed to accompany her.
Soon we’re standing in front of her building, and I don’t know what to do or how to act. This is a date, but not actually a date, although it feels like a date.
Kennedy turns to face me, clutching her purse in front of her with both hands. “Surprisingly, I had a lot of fun,” she says, rocking slightly on her heels. “You were very tolerable.”
“High praise.” I chuckle, not bothering to hide my smile.
“I mean it,” she insists. “You’re not as insufferable as I thought you’d be.”
I snort. Honestly, I wasn’t nearly as insufferable as I thought I’d be either. “Back at you.”
She bites her lip like she’s having an internal debate. When she speaks, the words tumble out. “Do you want to come up? I’ve got beer—wait, shit, you can’t drink that… I also have wine.”
I know exactly what she’s offering. We had a surprisingly good time, so why not extend the evening? Then we’d wake up tomorrow and it would be what it was—nothing serious, nothing that requires definitions or explanations.
A month ago, I would’ve said yes without thinking twice. Hell, two weeks ago I probably would have. But standing here, looking at her with her mess of blond hair, recalling the way her sharp tongue stung but also thrilled me, and the way she made me laugh more tonight than I have in months, I know I can’t do it.
“I should get going.” I shake my head even though a part of me, a larger part than I’d like to admit, wants to say yes.
Her face shift as she pulls her keys from her pocket. The expression isn’t one of hurt or embarrassment. No, it’s more like she’s recalibrating and adjusting expectations.
I open my mouth to explain, but snap it shut again. What am I supposed to say?I’m not coming up because I want to too badly? Because you argued with me about whetherDie Hardis a Christmas movie for twenty minutes and I’ve never wanted to kiss someone more in my entire life?
Sighing deeply, because it’s really not her, it’s me, I say, “It’s not that?—”
“You don’t have to explain,” she interrupts. “We did our due diligence and went to dinner.”
She’s giving me an out, another one. I should take it, but the forced cheerfulness in her tone makes me feel like an ass.
“It’s just… complicated,” I state lamely.
