Page 53 of Fireworks Flame
“No,” he says, holding up a finger. “You got jealous, didn’t you? You realized you love him, and now you can’t touch him because you won’t be able to ever let go.”
I force a laugh, but my stomach churns at how close he’s come to the truth. Not about the jealousy or the love or the inability to let go, obviously. But Booker is right that I’ve been avoiding Deiss’s touch since lunch, just like it’s still a struggle to make eye contact with him. If a man who accidentally accepted arcade tokens as payment for a record yesterday (Booker believed the customer who claimed they were two-dollar coins) could pick up on that, I have to assume that Deiss has, too.
“I was just drunk,” I say firmly. “I always get skittish when I drink too many cocktails. But that’s it. Nothing weird happened at lunch, just like there’s nothing weird between Deiss and me.”
I stand up, determined to prove it. Not just to Booker. Not even to Deiss. To myself. I wasn’t supposed to have crazy thoughts about Deiss. It certainly doesn’t fit into my perfect version of our friendship.
But it happened.
And I can deal with that. I have quit my job, but managed to accumulate six new clients in my first week of freelancing. I’m all but penniless, but my skin is still tan from a trip to Africa and my belly is full of top-shelf cocktails. I’ve lost my home for the second time in my life, but I’ve never felt more happily settled than I have at Deiss’s.
If my friendship with him has slipped a little out of my control, I just need to adapt. I’m not going to ruin things by closing myself off. In fact, I’ll do the opposite. I’ll hang out with him, I’ll look him in the eyes, and I’ll touch him, casually, because that’s what normal friends do. It doesn’t matter if I have the tiniest crush on him, because Deiss only thinks of me as a friend. It’s why he loves me. It’s why we’ve made the pact.
I cross the store, hovering off to the side until Deiss wavesthe man in the business suit, who now has a hefty stack of records balanced between his hands, toward the register.
“Hey,” I say, closing the distance between us.
Deiss turns and leans back against the bins when he sees me. “Did you get your wine label done?”
I nod. “It was fun. I think it turned out really well.”
“Nice.” He smiles, teeth flashing white against the dark scruff, and my breath speeds up. He’s so complicatingly attractive. “Can I see?”
“Sure.” I hold up my hand when he pushes himself up straight. “But first, I wanted to say sorry for what I said in the Uber.”
“Not necessary,” he says.
“It is, though. I don’t even know why I’d say that. I was upset about something else, and I took it out on you.” I take a deep breath, feeling like I’m at the end of a diving board. With a sharp exhale, I push myself forward and wrap my arms around him. “Please forget I said anything.”
He stiffens beneath my grip, and I freeze, my arms feeling suddenly brittle, like two tree branches I’ve attempted to embrace him with. But then he relaxes, one arm sliding around my waist and the other wrapping around my back, pulling me into him. His hand palms the back of my neck, sparking unwanted memories of that night in the tent, and I bury my face in his shoulder so he won’t see the flush of my cheeks. It feels good, this hug. I can’t imagine why it’s taken us eleven years to do it.
“Consider it forgotten,” he says into my hair.
I nod and pull back, but I forget to let go. His arms stay around me as well, loosening and wandering the length of my back. His body is hard and warm, and when I look up at his face, my eyes get caught on his mouth.
“What were you upset about?” he asks in a low voice, drawing my gaze up.
“Nothing,” I say dreamily, distracted by the way his pupils have dilated. It makes them equal parts black and blue, which would translate into a bruise if I tried to re-create it as a design but is unquestionably sexy in person. “I saw someone in the restaurant I didn’t want to see.”
“Who?” His eyebrows draw together in a very un-Deiss-like way.
I shake my head, not wanting to continue the lie but not knowing how to get away from it. It’s not like I can explain that I got freaked out by my attraction to him, especially not while his arms are wrapped around me. It would make my whole apology look like some deviant attempt to cop a feel.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, averting my eyes.
“Let’s go home,” he says, drawing them back. He smiles, but it doesn’t match the tension in his face. “We’ll grab dinner on the way and find a comedy to watch.”
“Okay,” I say as the bell above the door dings. Deiss glances up at it, but his arms don’t drop from my back.
“You made it back,” he says to someone behind me.
“I did,” a woman says.
I let go of Deiss, spinning around to find a beautiful woman with dark hair and a familiar face behind me. The sight of her punches me in the chest, making my breath catch in my throat.Zoe.Zoe, from St. Lulia. The woman Deiss must have spent his last night of vacation with. My stomach clenches at the way she’s smiling at him, so confident and gorgeous. Her legs belong on a runway, which she must know, judging by the four-inch heels she’s showcased them in. I feel like I’m back in school in my strappy sandals.
“I remembered the name of this place,” Zoe says, “and I thought I’d check it out, see if you were around.”
“I’m glad,” Deiss says.
