‘No. How do you know? How do you come hit on someone without it all going wrong?’
‘You know how it goes, Heather. You must’ve been hit on a hundred times.’
‘Maybe.’ Would I know? Would I realise? Yeah, I suppose there have been a few times, occasions that I’ve assumed were drunken declarations. Unwanted advances, men I’ve shot down without thought. But how does it happen the other way?
‘You said no even though you’ll be sleeping on the floor tonight.’
‘We both know that’s not happening.’ He smiles one of the hundred smiles he has in his arsenal, this one provocative and playful as he passes me the single glass. ‘I can be trusted. And I’m not sleeping on a carpet hundreds of pairs of feet have shuffled across.’
‘You have something against feet?’ His next smile is one that says I’m being ridiculous.
‘You and I? We’re bed mates tonight. You’d best get used to it.’
I take a sip of my drink, my heart and stomach seeming to jostle for space as his hand reaches out, taking a lock of my hair and rubbing it between his fingertips. ‘Is your hair naturally curly?’
‘No, it just doesn’t like the humidity.’
‘You know, when someone hits on me, I don’t always take them up on it.’
‘How do you know you’re being hit on—I mean, outside looking in? It looked pretty obvious. But it’s not always that simple in my head. How would you come on to me?’
‘Are you asking me to show you my best moves?’ His eyes turn smoky, dropping to my lips, and he swipes his thumb against my red cheek. ‘You’re a forward little thing when you’re drinking vodka.’
‘I’m really not, though it seems to me you must be used to forward women.’ I swallow again, not sure what comes next. ‘Daisy, my friend, likes to say that alcohol isn’t the solution, but it certainly helps me relax. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help me read the signs. And watching you at the bar, it occurred to me for the first time that I’ve taken advantage of you.’
‘That’s usually my line.’
‘What?’ My brow furrows.
‘I said there’s still time.’ That smoky look is now almost wolfish.
‘Sure. That sounds reasonable.’ I find myself wrapping my arm around my waist, wishing for that cardigan again.
‘I can’t help being irresistible to single women within a mile radius.’ His eyes narrow almost infinitesimally. ‘Well, most of them.’
‘Always so modest, Archer Powell.’
‘Always with the chastisement, Heather Whittington. You know,’ he murmurs, sliding his hand from my shoulder down, my skin prickling with awareness of his proximity. ‘If you’re jealous, you could just say.’
Is that what I am? Is that what this twist in my stomach is all about?
‘Why would I be jealous?’ Because I hang around the edges of life and above it at the same time. Never really a part of it. It’s a place I’m tired of hanging out, all alone.
‘Forget it. It was a stupid thing to say.’ As he straightens, it’s almost as though something between us is severed. And I don’t want that. I’m not ready for this to end tonight.
‘No.’ I reach out, laying my hand over his arm. ‘What if I wanted to take you to bed tonight? Like she did?’ Despite the drink, my lips are parched, my tongue darting out to wet them.
‘Hang on, what?’
Is it silly to say I think he was concentrating more on my actions than my words? I swallow thickly, refusing to go down that familiar path of overthinking. No longer a-wishing and a-hoping, but making it so.
‘Heather, ask me that question again.’
‘How do I ask you to spend the night with me?’
‘You just take my hand.’
15
