Page 4 of The Plus Ones
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
“You sure?”
I feel his hand touch my back, ever so slightly, and it makes me shiver in a completely different way.
“Yeah.” I take a step away from him and turn to face the view again. “You wishing your ex was here tonight?”
“I guess.” He turns back to face the view too. “I mean, I wish she wanted to be here. Y’know?”
I nod. “Yeah. Sorry.” Surprisingly, I really am sorry for him. I liked her—Tamara. Aimee and Chase liked her. He obviously loved her. Aimee said he was devastated when she decided to move to LA without him. He would have moved there with her, but she just didn’t want him to. It was over for her. And he was heartbroken. Still is, probably.
“You seeing anyone?”
I shrug my shoulders. “No one special. Y’know. You?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all.”
Silence. There’s music coming from inside. There’s traffic noise and people out on the streets below us. But it just seems so quiet all of a sudden as I feel him eyeing me.
I clear my throat. “You should get back in there and talk to Aimee’s cousin. She’s been eye-boning you all night.”
“Has she? I hadn’t noticed.”
I glance over at him, ever so quickly. He doesn’t look away. It’s not that I’m not comfortable being looked at. Or stared at. With a rack like mine and a mouth like the one I’ve got on me. I’m just not used to being looked at or stared at by him. He’s not staring at my rack. He’s not responding to some wisecrack I just made. He’s just looking at me. And I’m definitely not comfortable with it.
In the good way.
In the tingly way.
Because he looks so handsome and he’s being so sweet.
Two thoughts I’ve never had about Keaton Bridges before.
But he’s got this vibe tonight… It’s so…
And this all feels so…
It’s that freaking Chainsmokers song that just came on. It’s this beautiful summer night. It’s all that champagne. All those wonderful people in there. That custom-made suit with that silver tie. These strings of warm white café lights all over the place that make everything feel so romantic. Everything… It’s just messing with my head. Or my heart. Or my ovaries.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, looking out at the view again, “but you look really beautiful tonight. I just…wanted to make sure you know that.”
I resist every urge to scoff at him or tell him to fuck off, and the strangest thing happens. I feel it. I feel the compliment, instead of just assuming he’s saying it because he wants to fuck me. Because he doesn’t. It’s Keaton. He’s just looking at me with those sad brown eyes, like…like he wants me to know that I look beautiful tonight. That he noticed. That he notices me.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
He nods. “You’re welcome.” He turns back to look out at the river and exhales, like he’s finally said what he wanted to say and there’s nothing left to say anymore.
Except now I want him to keep talking.
Or I want him to…
What?
Make me feel less like I’m on the outside looking in.
Keep making me feel beautiful tonight.
And as if he just heard my thoughts, he twitches, takes one step toward me, pulls me in toward him with one hand, and places the other under my chin to lift it up as he kisses me. It all happens so fast I can’t do anything other than hold his face and kiss him back. I can’t do anything other than grab on to his lapels and respond to his lips and his tongue and his hands and the soft moans and the quickening of our breaths. I can’t ignore what’s going on between my legs and I really can’t ignore what’s pressing against my thigh.
