Page 7 of Business or Pleasure

“I can’t imagine living anywhere else.” I take a sugary nibble of churro. “Do you feel that way about SoCal?”

“Los Angeles,” he specifies, and maybe he’s realizing he can open up a bit more, too. “It’s strange—it’s a city where everyone cares about who you are and who you know, and yet it’s so massive that it’s easy to be anonymous. It makes me feel both like I’m living under a microscope and like this tiny speck in the universe at the same time.” Then he shrugs. “But, you know, the weather. And the Mexican food. I’m not sure I could give up sunshine or burritos.”

“Fair.” And then, when he adjusts to reach for one of the napkins he shoved into his jeans pocket: “Only one of your sleeves is buttoned, by the way,” I say, reaching out and tapping the sleeve lightly on the wrist. “Not sure if that was an intentional fashion choice, or...”

I’m aware I’m hard-core flirting, punctuating nearly all my sentences with a laugh. This version of myself—I don’t hate her. She’s carefree and laid-back, two adjectives I’ve never associated with myself. She’s fun.

He glances down. “It’s probably been that way for hours, huh?”

“I’ll fix it for you.” I lean in as he gamely holds out his arms, and now my knee is pressed against his, too. “Do you want them both up or both down?” I ask the question hoping for a specific answer. Up would give me more reasons to touch him.

“Up, please,” he says, blushing again.

His skin is warm, his breath even. I take my time, making sure his sleeves are the same length, each roll of fabric revealing more freckles. When my thumb grazes the underside of his forearm, he twitches but doesn’t move away. The next time I do it, it isn’t an accident, and his eyes lock on mine with a steady intensity.

I didn’t think rolling up the sleeves of a man’s shirt could be erotic, but here we are. My heart is hammering against my rib cage and this close, I can see how long his lashes are. Those lines around his eyes, the graying of his hair. I wonder how he feels about it, if he’s fighting it or if he’s made his peace, or if it’s something that’s never bothered him at all. His scent, something woodsy that might be leftover cologne he wore to his sales conference or something purely him.

He’s really lovely, this man, and suddenly it seems unfair that I have only one night with him. The mysterious Drew.

“Thank you,” he says in a new kind of voice. Rougher. Richer.

My throat has gone dry, and when I reach into my bag for my entrepreneurial water bottle, my fingers skim the top of Maddy’s book.

I fight back a laugh as I pull it out. “I—I accidentally stole this,” I say. “I was supposed to pay for it after I got it signed, but then I went to the bar and forgot. We have to go back.”

“All this time, I’ve been cavorting about with a common criminal?” he says, but the look on his face is sheer amusement.

“I could just as easily blame you!” I pat the book gently against his chest, and he clutches his heart, pretending I’ve wounded him. “If you hadn’t been so charming, maybe I wouldn’t have been cavorting about with you and forgotten to pay.”

As though summoned, a dimple appears in one cheek. “You think I’m charming?”

“I think you’re an accessory to petty theft,” I say as we get to our feet. “And I also think I’ve never heard someone use the word ‘cavorting’ in casual conversation before. I kind of love it?”

“Ah, you see, that’s what makes me so charming.”

We haven’t ventured too far from the bookstore, only about five blocks. Except now when we walk, I’m more aware of Drew’s body than I have been all night. The way he makes his steps smaller to keep pace with me, his arm brushing mine.

Of course, when we get there, it’s closed—lights off, parking lot empty. Something I did not, in my churro-and-lust-fueled haze, pause to consider.

“Shit,” I say after trying the door anyway. “I could just slide some money under the door?” I open up my wallet, realizing I used the last of my cash on the churro. Drew reaches for his pocket, but I shake my head. “Or more logically, come back tomorrow, tell them I inadvertently stole a bestseller, and hope I won’t be banned for life.”

With a sigh, I drop the book back into my bag. More trouble than it’s worth, that thing.

This part of the neighborhood is quieter, the sounds of nightlife echoing in the distance. I lean against the wall of the bookstore, right next to a sticker with a few sparse lines of poetry on it, no longer drunk on anything but adrenaline and staying up late with a handsome stranger.

One who can’t seem to take his eyes off me.

“I like this,” he says, touching the side of his nose, the same place where mine is pierced. “Suits you. How long have you had it?”

“Since I was seventeen. Or, you know, four and a quarter. My cousin found this place that didn’t ID, and she’s forever bitter because hers got infected and she had to take it out, and mine didn’t.”

There’s no way discussing nose rings is a precursor to anything remotely romantic, and yet the way he’s looking at me, you’d think I’d just said I wasn’t wearing underwear.

“It’s very cute on you,” he says, the compliment landing low in my belly. It’s refreshing, someone clearly letting you know they’re into you, as opposed to all the back-and-forth with Wyatt. The years of overanalyzing, every brush of sleeve against sleeve necessitating an hour-long mental debrief.

“You, too,” I blurt, and then try to laugh it off. “That was a weird reflex. You don’t have a nose ring. I’m not even sure what I was trying to say. That you’re cute, maybe? I mean—I don’t usually do this, run around the city with guys who may or may not be cute—”

“Chandler,” he says, that smile playing on his lips as he sways closer. I like the sound of my name in his voice. And the way his gaze keeps dropping to my mouth—I like that, too, though probably not as much as I’d like the scrape of his stubble against my face. Neck. Hips. “It’s okay.”

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