Page 49 of Dear Pink

“Friends?” I ask, clinking my wine glass with hers.

Hannah sips her wine and says nothing. I’m an idiot to assume we sparked earlier. We stare at one another in silence.

Lolly snorts in her sleep, and I gulp the last of the wine. She grabs the bottle to pour more, and I shake my head. “None for me, thanks. I should head home.”

“You’re leaving?”

She frowns slightly and takes a big sip of wine. Is she heartbroken? Relieved? I’m confused. I scream inside my head. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to be just friends. I want to grab her, kiss her, and hold her all night.

“Maybe I’ve overstayed my welcome?” I say.

“No, you haven’t.” She touches my arm, her hand lingering. “I'll order takeout. I owe you dinner for the help today.”

My stomach drops. Just when I’m in sync with her, she plays a different song. “You don’t owe me anything. I like helping you.”

“I wouldn't have a clue what to buy Homer without your insight.”

“You’re smart. You would have figured it out.”

“You eat Indian food?” Her eyes plead with me.

“Yeah. I love Indian food.”

She digs through stuffed drawers, shuffling takeout menus until she lands on one. Waving the paper at me, she says, “This place is the best.”

“Okay. Sounds great.”

Her face lights up and her eyes glitter again. I point to several items on the menu. “Let's get lots,” I say. “I’m starving, and we can share.”

“Perfect.” Her voice is seductive. Maybe this evening won’t turn out so friendly after all.

Hannah taps on her phone for a few minutes, and I pour myself more wine.

“They’ll be here in an hour,” she says.

“There’s no hurry.” I picture naughty activities to do while we wait.

“Let's sit in the living room.”

I follow her and watch her ass sway. Her shorts leave little room for my imagination. “To new friends,” echoes in my ear. Maybe that’s a positive thing. Of course, I want to be friends. But are we more? Oh, god, I hope so. I should ask, but I’m afraid of the answer. Plus, I don’t want to come on too strong.

She sits on the stiff sofa, and I’m faced with a dilemma. Do I sit next to her or across from her in one of the armchairs? She watches me, biting her bottom lip in the sexy way I like. That’s a not-just-friends look she gives me. I’m baffled. I step tentatively toward the chair, and she pats the space beside her. Yes, definitely a not-just-friends move.

I plop near her and place her small hand in mine. She doesn’t pull away. “How long have you lived in this house?” I ask because this place makes no sense.

She squeezes my hand, holding on for dear life. What’s happening in her beautiful brain? She says nothing. The silence lingers, weighing down the room and filling the air with electricity. She closes her eyes for a moment as if she’s going to tell me something important. A secret maybe? Oh, no, she lives here with another man. Maybe she’s married. Oh, god, please don’t let her say that.

“This is my parents’ house,” she says.

I didn’t expect that answer, but it’s better than the alternative: “I share this house with my handsome lover, and you and I can only be friends. The make-out session at PetSmart was a huge mistake.”

“No, wait,” she blurts. “It’s not.”

Ugh. Here we go. I cover my face with my hands and wish the sofa would swallow me whole.

“This is my house. Itwasmy parents’. They died in a car accident my freshman year of college, and I inherited the house.”

I uncover my face. What? This explains why the furnishings don’t match her personality. I glance around at the hard wooden furniture, the gilded mirror over the fireplace, the landscape paintings. The space doesn’t belong to her. She lives in a house frozen in the past. My heart aches for her.

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