do that flippy, uncomfortable thing again, warning me against a bad decision. Or maybe hating the possibility of being cut off from a long-standing addiction.
“In your apartment?” he asks. “Again? You don’t want to go out and grab a bite from a restaurant this time?”
Like a date? A proper, kiss-you-at-the-end-of-the-night situation?
My brain fumbles for an answer, my hand dropping from his as my internal battle intensifies. I should do this. I need to do this.
Stockholm syndrome be damned.
Heated memories forsaken.
Instead, I wince, my fucking weakness claiming victory as I fail to vocalize an affirmation. “Let me think on it.” My pulse increases, the pull of want and need dragging me in two different directions.
He’s handsome. So goddamn handsome, with his sky-blue eyes and slick blond hair.
But he’s not what I hunger for. He’s buttered toast pitted against the extravagance of fine dining.
Poisoned fine dining.
“Come on.” He jerks his head toward his car and backtracks. “I’ll convince you while I give you a ride home. I can be persuasive when I want to be.”
2
Anissa
Easton didn’t change my mind. He did, however, order the pizza and pick the movie.
He was also the one who made the decision to sit side-by-side on my sofa, putting me on edge with his proximity.
Actually, that could’ve been my fault.
After genuine conversation and a few laughs at the dinner table, liquid courage had me plopping my ass on the three-seater with him soon following to sit beside me. I’d thought it would be nice to see what happened.
Would he make a move?
Would I like it?
I should’ve kept with tradition and maintained my distance by claiming the recliner. Now his arm is spread behind my neck, his body so close I can smell his woodsy aftershave, and I can’t handle the apprehension that smothers me.
He crosses his legs, his attention remaining on the television. “You’re tense.”
No shit.
We’ve worked together for too long, our relationship kept strictly professional since the moment we met, and this, right here, feels like a huge leap into high school awkwardness.
He gently massages his fingers against my shoulder. It heightens my sensitive nerves.
“I, umm… I’m still thinking about my shrink. I should find a new one.” I clear my throat, my heart demanding I scoot away but I grin and bear the discomfort. “You’re right about needing someone to talk to.”
This is Easton.
Straightlaced, by-the-book Anthony Easton.
If he knew half the things I’m guilty of he wouldn’t be rubbing me like this. In fact, I’m certain he’d be disgusted. Those kind eyes would turn feral, stripping layer upon layer of my already flimsy pride.
“Want me to ask around and get some recommendations?” He turns to me, his knee brushing my thigh. “I think one of my high-school buddies sees someone on Billow Street.”
I clear my throat again, the tickle at the back of my tongue becoming more persistent. “Thanks. But I’d prefer to find someone on my own. I don’t want to rush into it.”
“Sure. That makes sense.”
We fall silent, my attention returning to the television where actors speak words I don’t bother listening to as the air turns into pockets of fragile glass around us.
I don’t want to budge an inch from fear of destabilizing the atmosphere. I really don’t.
Then again, maybe I should.
Maybe I need to beat back this arduous twist of my insides and take a leap of faith.
I should kiss him. Bite the bullet. Dive straight in, getting the experiment over and done with. Because so far, it’s working. I haven’t thought about Cole in hours. I’ve been successfully distracted. Until right this second, when his face stares back at me with each blink.
Easton chuckles.
I stiffen. Can he read my mind?
I’d almost believe he’s capable if his eyes weren’t glued to the television. He must be laughing at the movie.
The coaxing massage against my shoulder grows more adamant, awakening tiredness in my weary bones.
I can do this. I should do this.
A peck on the lips isn’t the end of the world. And my loco, bat-shit-crazy status gives me a neon-sign excuse if I fail this crash test.
It’s a win-win.
So why does kissing someone other than Cole seem like a shitty consolation prize? The bushfire flames of attraction are nowhere in sight. Lust isn’t anywhere on my radar.
I clear my throat again, pissed off at the relentless tickle, and turn to face my friend.
He remains lazily focused on the screen, but I know he’s aware of my train of thought. His understanding is subtle in the slight lift of his chin, the