Page 52 of Weather Girl

“Maybe one of us would ask why the other was still single, and it would really hit a nerve, but we’d try our hardest not to let that show. There’d be the arguing over who pays the bill.” I nod toward the pretzel wrapper. “I’m glad you didn’t chivalrously insist on paying the four dollars for this.”

“Only because I promise to get the pretzel the next time we come here.”

He fights a smile nestled in one corner of his mouth as I doodle a rain cloud on his skin, fingers shaking before he closes his hand around mine. In one swift motion, he flips it over so he can have his way with it. With his middle finger, he traces what I think is my heart line, back and forth and back and forth in these slow, searing arcs.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, struggling to focus on the conversation as I imagine that finger sliding down my stomach. Parting my thighs. Making me gasp. “And then at the end of the night... I’d probably be stressing about whether we were going to kiss.”

“Who would be making the first move? You or me?”

“Depends,” I say, my voice strained. Now he’s etching circles into my palm, varying the pressure with each revolution. Fucking hell. “I don’t mind making the first move, but if the guy does it, he should be sure it’s what I want, too. And I don’t want it to feel like an obligation. I want him to kiss me because he’s been thinking all night about how much he wants to.”

“So... kind of like this?” He drops my hand, burning with the memory of his fingertips, and stretches forward. He skates his thumb along my jaw, draws my face closer so he can kiss me across the table.

Except—he doesn’t. Not right away. For a few seconds, he simply lingers there, lips a whisper from mine. Waiting. Finally, when I’m a moment away from leaping across the booth and crushing myself into his lap, he brushes his lips against mine so slowly. Sweetly, though he has to know how evil he is right now.

Before he pulls away, he teases his teeth along my bottom lip.

There. Evil.

“Yes,” I breathe, already missing the press of his mouth as he settles back into the booth. “And if the date is going really well, I might invite him over. It also depends.”

“On?”

“How badly I want him to touch me.”

His eyes are laser-focused on me, the silence between us electrically charged. Every ounce of my attention is focused on the hardening of his jaw and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. I lied—it isn’t that I want him to touch me. I need him to.

“Well. What’s the verdict?” His voice is a low, lovely scrape.

“Russ,” I say, placing my hand on his knee beneath the table. “Do you want to come over?”

We can’t get out of there fast enough.

19

FORECAST:

Record-breaking heat gives way to a satisfying downpour, putting an end to a five-year drought

BY THE TIME we get to my apartment, it’s dusk, the Seattle sunshine lingering only at the edge of the horizon.

“It’s very you.” Russell motions to a framed piece of art on my wall, a star-dotted black background with SWEATER WEATHER scrawled in white cursive.

I shrug out of my jean jacket, careful not to let the brooch’s sharp edges catch my dress as I hang it up. “A college graduation gift from my brother. You must have seen it before when you dropped me off.”

“True,” he says. “But I was too focused on making sure you were okay and trying my best not to let on that I was extremely attracted to you. It was a tricky balance.”

I bite back a grin. “Good to know you were suffering, too.”

He unlaces his shoes without asking if he needs to, setting them neatly at my door. Then he moves into the living room, eyes landing on my table of jewelry projects.

“This is where you make those earrings and necklaces?” he asks. “And brooches that you’re determined to bring back into style?”

“Yep,” I say, trying not to think about how long ago it was I mentioned the brooches, and whether it means he simply has a memory to rival Joanna’s or something else entirely. It was probably just that I was wearing one today. I lift my sling. “Though not a ton is happening right now.”

I head into the tiny kitchen, wondering what says I asked you here to get you into bed and the beverage is merely a formality at this point.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” I ask. “I have beer, wine, some hard cider.”

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