Page 70 of Red Flags Only

“I remembered in middle school you were obsessed with sleepovers,” I reply, “and then devastated you never got invited to one. I thought we could fulfill your dream since I’m staying over. Sleepover and a trope. One for you and one for me.”

Her finger freezes on the page, hovering overArts and Crafts Timebefore leaving the paper to land on my cheek, turning me to face her. “Thank you, Jupie,” she says, sincerity and gratefulness pouring through her words. “This means a lot to me.”

I slip an arm around her waist as I kiss her temple. “Anything and everything for you, Lyra-love.”

She echoes my words in a whisper, then taps the list. “Food. Can you order while I go get changed? Sleepover activities require sleepover attire.”

My brain stutters over several possibilities for what Lyra might consider “sleepover attire”, all of which are less appropriate than anything Lyra would be likely to even look at.

Clearing my throat as I shift on the couch, I tug at the collar of my t-shirt. “Of course,” I rumble. “Do you mind if I turn down the thermostat a couple of notches too?”

She shrugs, tells me to make myself at home, then disappears into her bedroom to change.

The house temperature reads 70 degrees, so I bump it down to 68 before pulling up the Wendy’s mobile app on my phone and ordering roughly half the menu. Those things settled, I raid Lyra’s linen closet for extra pillows and blankets, push the coffee table out of the way, push the couch back so we don’t break our necks looking up at the TV from the floor too close, and then, finally, make us a comfortable sleepover movie night nest on the floor.

“I’m not sleeping on the floor,” Lyra says, rejoining me in the living room. “I spent my entire savings on my mattress three years ago, if you remember. I sleep nowhere but it unless I absolutely have to.”

“I remember telling younotto spend all your savings, and that I’d buy you a top of the line mattress instead,” I reply, fluffing a pillow. “But we aren’t sleepi-” I choke as my eyes flick up, landing on my very best friend in the entire world.

That’s outfit number two of the possibilities I deemed not something Lyra would consider.

She’s trying to kill me.

“What are you wearing?” I wheeze, eyes wide as I take her in.

She blushes, so sweet, and runs her hands over hershortshorts, made even shorter by the fact that the bottom half of them – maybe four inches of fabric – is a sheer, dusky red lace. Which matches perfectly the, blessedly opaque, silky red material above it, clinging to her hips beneath a top that isn’t cut in a way any man would think much of, butenthrallsnonetheless. The bottom comes together in a V, mimicking the line of the collar as it comes down from the skinniest bits of lace I’ve ever seen as they valiantly attempt to hold the shirt on Lyra’s star-freckled shoulders.

While the cut alone is loose, hiding the curve of her breasts and the line of her waist, lace flirts along her collar, teasing shadows of what’s beneath while never quite showing. More lace cuts through the sides of the top, forming more Vs and casting more shadows as the fabric moves with her, nearly but not quite revealing things that are only Lyra’s to reveal.

I gulp.

A work in contrasts thatseriouslyworks on me, Lyra stands there in the sexiest outfit I’ve ever seen, blush stealing over her cheeks as her fingers twist in front of her and her feet shuffle. Her eyes hit mine, then dart away, and she bites her lip.

I inhale, sharp.

Hot. Gorgeous. Sweet. Shy. Innocent. Perfect.

Nervous.

Flag, she’s nervous.

“Hey,” I say, dropping the blanket in my hand and coming near. I reach for her, bypassing all of the tempting spots I could land on until I get to her face, where my hands settle on her burning cheeks. “You look gorgeous, honey. So flagging gorgeous.” I let loose a curse, and it’s notflag. “I wasn’t expecting you to come out here wrapped so pretty just for me.” My eyes drop to her toes, which are painted thesame red as the silk she wears, then drag up her body, taking in the present that is her.

I grab her hand, bringing it to my chest. “Feel?” I ask. “You have nothing to be nervous about. I am, as ever, at your mercy here, Lyra. Possibly more so now than I have ever been. I think you could ask me to walk off a cliff and I’d do it quite happily right now.”

Her lips tip up and relief courses through me. Less nervous. Good.

“I just thought,” she starts, eyes flicking between mine, then away. “Well, I thought that if I’m going to make you realize you’re in love with me, I should give it my best effort, you know? Say I actuallytried.”

“No one could deny that you are trying your very best,” I concede. My hand on her cheek lifts until only my fingers remain for me to trail across her skin, down her neck. Over her star-studded shoulder.

I push the lace there, enjoying the hitch in Lyra’s breath as it falls away, leaving no hindrance to my appreciation of her freckled complexion. “My goodness, Ly,” I mutter. “You try so well.”

She shivers, then, despite my protesting whine, takes her hand off my heart, steps back, and fixes her strap. “Thank you,” she says, voice wobbly and high. She clears her throat, then braves a look at my face.

She finds me pouting, and lingering tension sinks out of her. She laughs. “Oh, don’t pout, Jupie. You can touch as much as you like later. Once you’re able to correctly interpret your feelings.”

“You mean to tease and torture, then?”

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