Page 75 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

Mara rolls her eyes. “I’ll invite anyone with a pulse if it gives us a shot at winning.”

I shove a tater tot in my mouth. “We were supposed to be having a girls’ night—not falling in love at the communal sink.”

Chelsea flutters her lashes. “I can only watch you making love with your eyes for so long before I have to get back in the game.”

I gag on a tot. “Don’t say ‘making love.’ ”

“Are you gonna hook up with this guy? Because he’s very interested.” Chelsea’s face is plotting our pathway to the bathroom stall for our unsanitary quickie, but Mara eyes me over her glass.

“It’s complicated. We may have kissed again. Then it got weird. Now it’s not, and I’m not sure why.” I sip my beer, noticing it sounds fairly uncomplicated when I put it like that.

“They’re announcing the top three now,” Adam says from behind me, casually placing a hand on my shoulder and sitting down. The warmth of it skitters across my skin.

Darren announces Otrivia Benson: SVU’s second-place victory, but I barely register it. My body is buzzing with anticipation. We walk out of the bar into the late November air, and the cold wind hits my face like a slap. I gasp, and Adam rubs the sides of my arms with his thick leather gloves. I shiver under the weight of his hands.

“This coat isn’t warm enough for a night like this. Don’t you have a parka?”

“This is it. I just have to flip it inside out,” I say wryly.

He gives me an admonishing head shake but can’t hide his amusement.

We walk to my apartment two by two, knuckles grazing. Chelsea gives me a big, dramatic hug before hopping into Mara’s Jeep, and Mara studies Adam and me with an inscrutable look before pulling away, Chelsea in the passenger seat.

I turn to Adam. He’s leaning against his truck with his hands in his pockets. He’s phenomenal at leaning. As the silence stretches, Adam looks at me.

He just looks.

The chill is biting, but I don’t make a move. It feels too heavenly to be looked at like this. By him. If I collapse on this sidewalk of hypothermia, I’ll accept it. I’ll have died how I lived: happy, aroused, and with poor circulation in my little toe.

“I liked seeing you tonight…with all your friends. I’m glad you invited me.” There’s a sweet vulnerability in his voice.

“Technically, Chelsea and Mara invited you.” I nudge his arm teasingly, and lit by nothing but the glow of the twinkle lights, it feels like an accelerant.

“I like Chelsea. Mara too, but I’m not sure she likes me.”

“Any weirdness was more about me. We argued the other day…” I should let the conversation drift off—let him drive home—but I can’t let go. “And she doesn’t know what to make of us.”

“I don’t know either,” he says thickly.

I go completely still. “We’re friends,” I tell him. Who kissed yesterday, I finish within the privacy of my mind. Replaying the kiss while staring into his eyes feels too filthy, so I do it quickly at three times the speed.

“I don’t know. I don’t think about my friends the way I think about you.”

“How do you think about me?” I lick my lips, knowing I’m playing with fire.

I don’t need him to answer. Everything I need to know is written all over his face. He reaches out and lightly grabs my mitten-covered hand in his. My body heats despite the freezing air. The juxtaposition of the hot and cold is too much to bear. I stare back at him, preparing to combust.

He pauses, closing his eyes to consider my question. “I imagine your every detail. Constantly. God, imagine the things I could accomplish if I could think about anything other than you: my favorite person.” He tilts his head down to mine, and his gaze buries itself into my lungs. Basic breathing becomes difficult.

“I’m only your favorite new person.”

“No, you’re not,” he answers, refusing to let me back away from this.

A shiver chases up my spine. If he steps back now, I might fall over the precipice of whatever comes next all by myself.

“Just tell me I’m crazy,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to mine. “Tell me you don’t think about me the way I think about you. Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll drive home, and you’ll never see me again.”

My eyes flutter shut. I could end this. I could stop everything right here. I’d never have to watch him realize I’m not enough, like Sam did. I open my eyes before my mind’s made up. It’s a mistake—or a miracle—because his expression is so bare and vulnerable, like what I say next is as vital as water or air. When his eyes flash down to my lips, his mouth quirks, pleased by whatever he sees in my expression.

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