When Harlow comes over and sits down, I drape my arm across her shoulders. With my other hand I reach for her cheek and affectionately turn her face toward mine. I can feel her heart beating in tandem with my own. It isn’t our first kiss, but this time, I’m stone-cold sober. This time I notice her bottom lip quiver a little. The way she smells. Like cherry vanilla.
“Ready?” I whisper.
“I think so.”
I lean in slow, and lightly press my lips to hers, just a featherlight touch at first, but it feels so nice, so pure, I’m not ready to pull back yet. Gradually, I deepen the kiss. Harlow makes a sweet, breathy noise, as I coax her lips apart, and the world spins in a dizzying circle.
I shift to cradle her face with both hands now, doing more’n kiss—I’m holding her, worshiping her, seeking her out. Staking my claim. We break apart, both of us breathing hard. We’re out of our minds. This isn’t going to end well, is it?
I break the silence, eventually. “So no kissing then?”
She sweeps her lips with the back of her hand, partially hiding a beautiful smile. “Definitely no kissing.”
Smart woman. I can be a good boy too. I don’t really want to be, but I can try…
At the event, that is.
Three
Harlow
Holy. Hot. Kiss!!!
And oh, yes, there were lots more where that came from. Even though we agreed kissing would be against the rules. At the start of the ceremony Drake came in for a chaste peck on the cheek right at the exact moment I was turning to face him. I don’t remember what I was going to say. His lips landed on mine and my brain went black.
Then, a thing happened. An amendment of sorts, unsaid, but mutually understood. Instead of “no kissing” the rule became “kiss as often as possible every chance we get.” Oh look someone’s coming to talk to us—quick, kiss! Another person won an award, how nice for them—kiss! Hey did you notice so-and-so looking in our general vicinity?—kiss, kiss, kiss!
It never got old, let me tell you.
Only Drake’s older brother Krae and some other fighters from their training camp knew the truth and they played along, especially the Irish hunk, Killian, and Sammy “Soldier” Valentine, current Fit to Fight champion in the welterweight division. Good men, all of them.
We’re in the giddiest of moods now, giggling about anything and everything, but mostly nothing, as we head back inside Drake’s house. We’re being so loud and buoyant his neighbors’ll think we’re sloshed. And I couldn’t care less. My inhibitions are asleep though I didn’t tip back a single sip. Neither did he.
“And where shall we put this beauteous treasure?” I snob, holding up the ridiculous trophy—a ‘lucky penny’ floating in a glass frame. One cent for the luckiest number-one-ranked fighter, oh yeah very clever, very funny ha-ha.
Drake handled the cheap-shot nomination better than expected, going up to accept it with good humor and grace. How sexy, really, is a man who’s able to laugh at himself? Drake even gave a heartfelt speech and thanked me, by name. Obviously being dedicated to our whole fake-relationship charade.
Obviously.
“Lemme see that.” Drake shows me his palms from across the living room, as if I’m supposed to actually throw his award—from here. “Toss it ’ere,” he confirms.
After a hesitant breath, I fling it over to him, instinctively shutting my eyes mid-throw, and by some celestial miracle Drake captures it in one hand. “Phew. Nice catch.”
He launches it up, almost to the ceiling, then catches it as it descends, and throws it high again. “Solid mass,” Drake observes. “Might make a nice paperweight.”
“Really, a paperweight?” I pull a face. “You seemed proud of it, at the show.”
“Or…” Next thing I know Drake passes it back to me. I almost miss it, but don’t. “Heads up.”
“A little late, thanks!” I hold it against my belly and regress into giggles again. I throw it back.
He catches it with an affirmative slap against his palm. “Or should I set it outside the front door, keep a spare housekey under it?” he says with an amused smirk. “Y’think anyone’d look under there?”
I shake my head dramatically. “Only the most astute burglar would ever think to!” I declare, and laugh, and laugh harder when Drake joins in. “Perhaps on the mantel? Right here beside the lovely photo of you and Krae?”
“Like hell,” he says, spritely. He grins at me as he jogs backward, almost into the kitchen, and then winds up his arm like he’s planning to throw it from all the way over there.
“I wouldn’t, Drake!”
“Good thing I’m the one holding it.” He launches the stupid ugly trophy almost directly toward my outstretched hands but a little too high above my head so I have to jump for it, not an easy endeavor when I’m not wearing four-inch heels and a sheath-like gown.
Naturally, I miss.
As if in slow-motion the trophy sails over my head, I watch it make a languid arc before it hurtles back earthside and crash-lands on the stone hearth of the pretty Hamilton fireplace. Its pearl finish hasn’t a scratch. The trophy is less fortunate. The frame breaks in three pieces and the glass shatters all over the place.
I cover my mouth in surprise, but let’s face it, that was going to happen.
I spin around to catch Drake chuckling. “Are you kidding me?” I point to the mess. “I’m not cleaning that.”
“No?” He stops laughing just to show off a smirk. “You were supposed to catch it, ma’am.”
“In this dress?” Hands on my hips, I head to the kitchen. The food tonight wasn’t anything to write home about, too many fighters in attendance cutting weight for their next bout. Besides hunger pangs, my nerves are currently…jumpy. Cooking should help. Please, let it help.
Drake and I trade a couple of jaunty grins as he walks past me to fetch a broom and dustpan. He sweeps up the mess and empties the shards of broken glass into the trashcan right next to where I’m chopping tomatoes.
“Butterfingers,” he teases me, in a low voice. As if my fingers had even grazed the ill-fated trophy.
“Puh-huh!” I fire back. “You just had to choose this dress, didn’t you.”
“Indeed,” he says, not really giggling anymore. “I had to.” And then after a lingering look that makes me go boneless, he slowly brushes past me to hang up the broom.
I check my thoughts, and clear my throat. “Um, wine, maybe?” It feels sort of taboo to ask. We’d agreed not to drink at the awards ceremony. Neither of us had to say why. We both sensed how things between us were starting to escalate into unknown territory, someplace exciting but quite frankly also terrifying. Didn’t need alcohol to complicate things.
But now, here, where we’re both maybe a little bit too comfortable, Drake says, “Sure, babe,” and pours me a glass of sweet rosé.
“Thanks.”
“Thank you, Harlow.”
“Oh it’s no problem for me to cook. The food kinda sucked tonight, right?”
“Not just for dinner.” Drake’s voice dips low again, smooth, sexy. “You being there with me, it helped. You’re a great friend for doing that.”