“That’s probably true,” Will says. “But I can also admit the things I want have changed.”
I cock my head. “What is it you want now?”
His eyes dart away from mine, and he wets his lips. “I don’t know. Not to waste my retirement fund in rent, and maybe to get a kitchen with a gas-top stove?”
“Shoot for the moon, why don’t you?”
Will smirks. “You make it look effortless. Having the lifestyle you want, pairing it with a job you love.”
“It’s not effortless,” I inform him. “It in fact requires every drop of my effort, and then some. The only reason I keep my head above water is because I’m basically a nun at this point.”
I flush red as soon as I say it, but Will looks intrigued. “You don’t date?” His voice is low, almost affronted.
“Never.”
“Not even casually?”
“Especially not casually. That’s the kind of dating that requires the most effort.”
Will laughs. Audibly. “That’s true.”
His leg knocks against my elbow. Neither of us pulls back. Neither of us utters out loud that this is sort of like a date.
“If I wasn’t here,” Will asks, “would you already be watching another CEO class by now?” He’s asking out of pure curiosity, not to chastise me.
“Yes,” I admit, hating myself for it. “I’m behind on the coursework.”
A moment of silence. “I’ll go now.”
“No.” I reach out and grab his leg, squeezing my eyes shut as my forehead rests on his knee. His breath catches in his throat.
It’s beenso longsince I’ve had this kind of company. Male company, easy company, the kind of company you could waste hours with.
I’m battling a war in my mind—push forward, get the work done so I can enjoy Garlic Fest tomorrow guilt free. Or lie here, talk to Will about nothing productive, nothing that bolsters the bottom line, and start my weekend.
Tentatively, almost shakily, his hand rests on my back, and he starts to rub. I feel the warmth of it everywhere. My muscles unclench, my spine straightens, my skin relaxes. I’m embarrassed and confused, so I keep my head tucked low.
“Play the next video,” he murmurs. “I’ll stay. We’ll watch it together.”
The issue, I think to myself, is we can do this for one night. Maybe Will even finds it endearing. But it doesn’t solve the problem in the long run. Because I can’t ask an actual romantic partner to fill the microscopic holes in my busy life forever.
I can’t ask that of Will Grant. I respect him too much to let this happen past tonight.
But I hit play anyway and let him rub my back like a lover would. And promise myself I’ll be productive in the morning.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
For as long as Camila and I have known David Ortega, he and his chef friends have hosted Garlic Fest.
The first time we attended was five years ago, back when Cami and David were in a simple flirtationship, having just met at Container Bar the night before. We were twenty-two and understandably confuddled anyone would willingly show up to a party where garlic is the star of the show, butHe was the cutest,Cami had said,and maybe these chef types know something about garlic we don’t?
Spoiler: chefs know something about garlic we don’t.
Five years later, it’s one of my favorite traditions, and now that she’s David’s fiancée, Cami has joined the fray as a partial hostess, though I’m pretty sure the most she accomplished today was a single wildflower arrangement. She’s still fiddling with it when I walk into her kitchen, her hair in a messy updo, her white T-shirt smeared with dirt.
“Are these too wilted?” she asks, catching my eye.
“Yes,” I say. They’re drooping in all directions, the stems hugging the lip of the vase.
