My body refuses to still. I follow her. Wrap my fingers around her wrist.
She looks up at me what the fuck?
"Let me fix you a drink," I say.
She motions to my hand.
I release her. "A Negroni, right?"
Her posture softens. "Here?"
Somehow, Patrick has everything I need. The guy only drinks Bud Light. What's he doing with Campari and Vermouth?
Is it shit I left?
A million things fill my head. A night in Mexico with Luna. Daisy's Birthday Eve. I fixed a dozen classic cocktails. So my sister could try everything.
She didn't like this one. Too bitter. Too alcoholic.
She favored Holden's drink. Kentucky Mule. Ginger beer and bourbon. All sugar and spice. Like the chai lattes she drinks every morning.
But Luna starts her day with black coffee. Of course she loved the Negroni. The only desserts she'll consume are eighty-five percent dark chocolate and coffee ice cream.
Everything else is too sweet.
"Oliver?" she asks.
Right. I'm fixing her a drink. Like normal.
Things can be normal. For once. "We need a glass."
"This is fine." She motions to one of the red plastic cups.
I shoot her the really look.
"It's a party."
"You deserve the best."
She nods true. "You're finally making sense."
"Does Patrick really think you're a goddess?"
"Excuse you?"
"I'm not saying you're not—" I motion to the kitchen. It's around the corner. This is a one-bedroom apartment. A big den, a hallway kitchen, two doors.
"You're digging your own grave," she says.
Probably. "You are a goddess."
"Obviously."
I actually chuckle. Fuck, I like her so much. She's funny, confident, strong. "Anyone can see that."
"Not really seeing your original point."
Yeah, me either. Of course, he thinks she's a goddess. She's tall, curvy perfection. "The dress."
"Excuse you?"
I move into the hallway. Find a short glass in the cabinet. Ice in the freezer.
"You want one too?" she asks.
What the fuck can I say? It's not my drink, sure, but since when do I refuse booze? "Don't like gin."
She knows it's bullshit, but she lets it go. "What about my dress?"
"It's fucking hot."
"Thank you."
"And that lipstick."
She shakes her head you're ridiculous, but I can't tell if it's a good or bad you're ridiculous. "Oh my god, Ollie, you are not going on about the lipstick again!"
"It's a fact," I say.
She motions for me to follow as she moves back to the bar. "It's a good color for me. I'm a cool summer."
"A what?"
"It's flattering."
"It's hot."
"Yes. That's the male version of flattering."
My eyes stay on her lips. Fuck, I need to taste them. To taste her. I focus on my task. Equal parts gin, Campari, vermouth.
One shot of each.
Bam.
Bam.
Bam.
I stir with a straw. Pull it from the glass. Bring it to my lips.
A reflex.
I stop. But not fast enough.
The flavor explodes on my tongue. Bitter, herbaceous, rich. It's good gin too. Really fucking good.
"Thanks." She brings the glass to her lips. Watches me watch her lipstick mark the glass. "Fuck." She lets out a soft moan. "You're skilled."
"Thanks."
"I might let the dick lipstick thing go. This once."
"It's true."
"It's not."
"'Cause you don't like it?" I should let her go. She's more dangerous than the bottle of gin. I'm already too close—we're pressed together—but I still move closer.
She looks up at me as she takes another sip. "I didn't like it with him."
"So you do like it?" I ask,
She sets her drink on the bar.
I pick it up. Motion to the bottle of gin.
She nods. Watches me fix another.
This time, I don't taste it. I don't covet it. I don't think about how the bitter cocktail will erase the voice in my head screaming you're only going to fuck this up worse.
I just hand it to her. Watch her wrap her lips around the glass, sip, swallow.
Fuck, I can still taste the drink.
That's what's on her lips.
I need to taste her fucking lips.
Now.
"What if I do like it?" Her hand goes to my chest. The same way she touched Patrick. But different. So fucking different.
Her fingers brush my collar. Then my neck.
Fuck. That feels good. Too good.
"Do you?" I ask.
"What would it matter to you?" She runs her fingertip over my collar. "If we can't."
"Luna."
Her fingers brush my neck. "What if I want to like it? What if I'm just waiting for the right guy? Is that what you want to hear?"
"I don't—"
"How about I go to Patrick. Tell him I have a better birthday present for him?"
"Luna."
"You're jealous." She presses her palm into my chest. Pushing me hard.
I hold my ground. "Of course, I'm—"
"You've barely spoken to me all fucking week, Oliver. You promised to comfort me and you ran away. What gives you the right to be jealous?"
"You're doing it on purpose?"
She shrugs. "I'm single. He's single. How is it any of your business?" She takes another sip. Licks her lips. Stares at me, proud, defiant, angry.
Which only makes my cock stir. It loves this side of her as much as I do. I want that proud, defiant woman in my bed, ripping off my jeans when I try to order her out of her dress.
She shakes her head you're fucking ridiculous. Then she finishes her drink, turns, spins on her heel, moves to the door.
She's right.
I'm ridiculous.
I don't have any fucking right to my jealousy.
But I chase her out the door anyway.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Oliver
Even in wedge boots, she's fast. A blur of silver hair and dark fabric.
I run after her. Down the stairs. Past a group of people smoking. Across the residential street.
"Where are you going?" I catch up to her. Reach for her.
She pulls her arm away. "Away."
"Away where?"
"Away from you."
"Luna."
"Don't Luna me." She folds her arms over her chest. "You've been avoiding me all week. Now that I might blow your friend, you suddenly want to talk to me?"
"I didn't—"
"I don't care what your reasons are. You're an asshole."
"I know."
"Then you know why I'm leaving."
Yeah, but I have to stop her anyway. "Can I explain?"
She sucks a breath through her teeth. "I'm calling an Uber."
"Please. I'll drive you wherever you want to go. Just let me explain."