She and her boyfriend, John, moved in together a few months ago, but Kitty and I still run together every week. And she enlisted John—a fellow cat lover, and total sweetheart—to feed my cat when I’m working a seventy-two-hour shift. And when I was on vacation, too.
Kitty is the kind of girl I can really talk to, and I wish we’d been close sooner. But back in school, she and Melody were joined at the hip and I wasn’t all that interested in girlfriends.
I spent my afternoons running wild with my three cousins—Buddy, Billy, and Buck—on their forty acres. We rode four-wheelers, hunted squirrel, and built forts out of the various construction gig odds and ends my uncle hoarded in his barn. By the time my aunt and uncle moved to Alabama, taking my cousins and partners in crime with them, I was too busy proving myself in my new job to worry about forming new bonds.
Gradually, my co-workers became my friends, and later on, my family, and I stopped trying to have a social life outside of the Bliss River Fire Department.
And I was perfectly content that way.
Still, I’m glad Kitty and I reconnected. It’s good to have a girlfriend my age, especially when it comes to tracking down New Year’s Eve parties and eligible, kissable guys.
“All right, brace yourself,” Kitty says as we round the corner near the bowling alley and start toward an apartment above a shuttered bodega where the New Year’s Eve party is clearly already in full swing. “Melody invited fifty people, so it’s going to be crowded. And hot. I guarantee you’ll be glad you wore a sleeveless shirt.”
“Right,” I say, my mouth suddenly feeling dry, yet sticky at the same time.
The apartment is still a block away, but I can already hear the pulse of club music. People are dancing in there—dancing, the only thing more stress-inducing than kissing. I’m not a bump and grind kind of girl. I’m a stand-in-the-corner-and-roll-my-eyes-at-the-people-dry-humping-on-the-dance-floor kind of girl.
Hopefully I’ll be able to find a guy who feels the same way and avoid any embarrassing wiggling in public.
A guy.
Ugh. A strange guy I’ll have to make some kind of conversation with before the kissing starts.
I swallow hard. “I can do this, right?”
“You can totally do this, and I’m so glad you’re here.” She gives my arm a squeeze as we head up the stairs toward the second-floor apartment. “With John out of town at that stupid convention, I was dreading making an entrance alone. And don’t worry, I’ll stick close.”
I nod and try to smile but fail.
Now that I’m seconds away from being surrounded by other twenty-somethings—twenty-somethings who have social lives and party on a regular basis instead of hanging out at dive bars with firefighters a decade older than they are or snuggling on the couch with their cat every Saturday night—I’m starting to wonder what the hell I was thinking.
This isn’t me. This is the opposite of me and is probably going to be about as enjoyable as being electrocuted.
Repeatedly.
I’m seconds away from telling Kitty adios and making a run for it, when the door at the top of the stairs opens and Melody March appears on the landing. The curvy blonde’s hair is teased into a huge bouffant. Combined with her cat eye eyeliner and black chiffon baby-doll dress, she looks like a nineteen fifties movie star, making me feel seriously underdressed in my jeans and boots.
“Kitty and Faith!” Melody holds out her arms, wiggling her fingers for us to hurry. “I’ve been watching for y’all from the window for an hour. Get up here and let me get you both a drink.”
Kitty laughs and falls into Melody’s hug. The moment they part, Melody reaches out, dragging me down for a tight squeeze.
I suddenly feel very tall and also…very welcome.
“I’m so glad you could come,” she says, smiling up at me. “Kitty’s told me so much about you. I know we’re all going to be great friends. Well, as long as you two don’t try to make me go running,” she amends with a laugh. “Because the only way I’m going running is if I’m being chased by zombies.”
“And zombies would probably be slow,” I say. “So even if they were chasing you, you still wouldn’t have to run.”
She grins. “See, there. I already like the way you think. Come on in, let me take your coats.” She ushers us inside, raising her voice to be heard above the music. “What can I get you? Beer, champagne, or some deceptively sweet punch that will knock you on your ass if you have more than two glasses?”
“Beer,” Kitty says. “But none of the light stuff. It tastes like pee.”
My gaze flicks from one side of the party to the other, relieved to see several clutches of people avoiding the dance floor. But there are a sufficient number of partygoers bumping and grinding to make me feel anxious.
Something that will knock me on the ass a little might not be a bad idea…
“I’ll have some of that punch, please,” I say.
“Great, be right back.” Melody turns, threading her way through the crowd toward the makeshift bar set up on the kitchen counter.
There are punch bowls and cups and every kind of drink container imaginable—from martini glasses to shot glasses to those giant red wine glasses I tend to break. The food spread on the other side of the room is fancy, too, giving the gathering a more elegant vibe than the average college kegger. But then, Melody is a professional caterer, and obviously has a leg up on other hostesses.
And the space itself is very party friendly.
The apartment is the most spacious I’ve seen in a long time—a large open concept layout that gives people plenty of room to meet and mingle. It’s packed, but it doesn’t feel claustrophobic, and by the time I suck down my first cup of punch and go looking for my second, I’m feeling much more relaxed.
“You need anything?” I shout to Kitty, who shakes her head and holds up her still half-full beer before turning back to the guy she’s been talking moonshine cars with for the past twenty minutes.
I make my way to the punch bowl with a bounce in my step, surprised to find I’m having a good time. I’m not dancing, of course—and have no plans to commit that kind of party foul—but the music and the vibe are fun, and I’ve enjoyed chatting with Kitty’s gearhead friends.
Unfortunately, however, none of the guys I’ve met so far are kiss-worthy prospects. They all seem genuinely nice, not the sort who’d be up for a no-strings-attached make out session.
I need someone else, someone with the same cocky swagger Mick has, the kind of guy who will think nothing of kissing me senseless and then walking away.
Mick wasn’t the one who walked away, and you know it.
I ignore the thought and ladle out another glass of punch before turning to retrace my steps.
The only reason Mick didn’t walk away was because I walked away first. He’s only interested in me because I’m hard to get. If I were to make the mistake of indulging my curiosity about him—of finding out if his kisses are as intoxicating as I remember and if there’s more to him than a nice sense of humor and a handsome face—I have no doubt he’d walk.
Once they realize you’re vulnerable to their spell, guys like Mick can’t bail fast enough.