Page 23 of The Fangirl and the Crooner

I head for my own room to change into a pair of jeans with brown boots and a beige Henley long-sleeved shirt. This color looks great on me and brings out my eyes…or so I’ve been told. Slipping my wallet into my back pocket, I grab my phone and head out into the living room.

Pressley is already there when I arrive, and my steps stumble to a halt as I get a look at her. She always looks beautiful, but right now? Something’s different. There’s a certain radiance about her as she checks her hair in the mirror hanging on the wall, unaware of my presence. She’s wearing a cream-colored sweater that hangs off one shoulder, revealing a black bra strap. Her skinny jeans are black, too, and she’s wearing a pair of ankle boots that match her top.

As if she senses my presence, she spins around to faceme. I clear my throat and smile, holding a hand toward the front door.

“Are you ready to go?”

“I am,” she says, her voice light and happy.

And, fuck, that makes me feel like a million bucks. That a simple overture, an invitation to go to the damn grocery store, would make her feel more comfortable than she’s been with me in weeks.

The drive to the store is mostly silent, but not as awkward as it might’ve been yesterday. It’s more comfortable. Easy.

At the store, as we walk up and down the aisles, Pressley visibly relaxes even more. We bicker over what main course to make––chicken or beef––and debate the starchy superiority of potatoes and pasta over rice and beans. Before we’re done, we’re laughing and joking like we did before our friendship took a nosedive.

“I think we should make Hamburger Helper,” she says excitedly, like she just came up with the greatest idea on the planet.

“Excuse me?” I ask, my tone dripping with exaggerated disdain.

“Hamburger meat’s on sale,” she says with a shrug.

Without thinking, I reach over and grip her side with my fingertips and squeeze. She squeals and jumps away from my tickling fingers, laughing over her shoulder as she skips down the aisle away from me.

Oh, yeah. This is good.

Everything is going to be okay.

Chapter

Fifteen

Pressley

It still amazes me how just a little wine can lower the inhibitions. After a single glass, any nervous tension I was still holding onto after our shopping trip melted away.

Bram and I had a lot of fun cooking together. We ended up buying ingredients to make chicken alfredo, caesar salad, and buttery garlic bread. I grated the parmesan and made the salads while he did the rest, impressing me with his ease and confidence in the kitchen.

We talked, we laughed. We acted like the last few weeks never happened and our friendship was fully intact.

By the time I finished my second glass of wine during dinner, I was physically unable to stop staring at Bram with “bedroom eyes.” I don’t know what, exactly, I wastrying to tell him with that sultry stare, but I know I’d never be so bold without the liquid courage.

I also know I’m probably going to regret that boldness in the morning.

But tonight? Tonight, I have zero fucks to give.

Dinner was delicious, and now, as we finish cleaning up the mess in the kitchen, I’m starting to feel a bit nervous again, despite the wine. What happens next? Do we just say goodnight and head to our separate rooms? I don’t want the night to end, but I can’t get a clear read on Bram and what he wants. So, in true Pressley fashion, I decide to offer him an out.

“This was really fun, Bram. Thank you.”

“You sound like you’re saying goodnight,” he says, cocking his head to study me as he closes the dishwasher and dries his hands.

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean…I’m not really tired, yet.”

“Good,” he says, and the word sends a thrill shooting down my spine. “Want to go sit in the living room for a while?”

“Sure,” I say, nodding when he picks up the bottle of wine and motions with it toward my empty glass.

After we both have refills, he follows me into the living room. I take a seat at one end of the couch, squeezing as close to the edge as I can get for some insane reason even I can’t comprehend.

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