Whoops. Perhaps I need to dial back the tequila for a bit.
He turns back to me, slipping his hands into his jeans pockets. I’m just about to get him a drink, when Cat appears beside us on her way out. I smile, but she narrows her eyes to slits.
“Hello, Michael.”
He nods. “Catherine.”
So formal. So icy, I almost shiver. My brow knits in confusion as Cat’s gaze cuts to me.
“Alex, can I have a word, please?” She drags me towards the kitchen before I can protest. “Why did you invite him?”
“What? I invited everyone in the building.” I scrutinize her murderous face as she shoots daggers across the room to Michael. “Why are you so annoyed? You weren’t this bothered when Agnes showed up.”
She gives a furious huff. “Yeah, but Agnes isn’t—”
“Cat?” I turn to see a tall, handsome guy weaving across the room towards us.
“Kyle!” A grin breaks across Cat’s face, all signs of animosity gone. As he reaches her side, she mutters to me under her breath, “We’ll talk about this later.” Then she beams up at Kyle as if the sun is shining out of his ass, and I watch in bewilderment as she gives me a carefree wave goodbye and sails out the door.
Well, that was bizarre. First the icy reception towards Michael, then what was all that fake cheer with Kyle?
I shake my head, wandering back to Michael, still standing awkwardly by the door. “Sorry about her.”
He wipes a hand down his face. “Why does she hate me so much?”
“I have no idea.” I analyze his features, searching for clues. Maybe she only knows the Michael I met months ago—the grumpy guy in the hallway who didn’t have a pleasant thing to say to anyone.
He clears his throat and I remember my manners.
“Let’s get you a drink.” I grab his arm, trying not to notice how strong and firm it feels as I pull him over to the drinks table. I let my hand rest on it longer than necessary, enjoying the warmth of his skin under my fingertips.
He gives me a teasing laugh. “It seems I’m a few behind you.”
I nod, pouring two tequila shots and placing both in front of him with a slice of lemon.
“You’re kidding.” A smile flits over his mouth as he eyes the shots. “You do realize I’m not as young as you. The hangovers are a lot worse at my age.”
“Come on.” I giggle and push the glasses closer to him. “It’s New Year’s Eve. Let’s have some fun.”
My words hang in the air and he gazes at me for a moment, his eyes dancing. There’s a thrill down my spine as the space between us hums with possibility. Then Michael grabs the shots and knocks them back in quick succession, biting the lemon. Fuck, I would do anything to take that out of his mouth with my own right now.
Geoff appears beside me with a mischievous grin. “Alex, who is your friend?”
Oh God, Geoff, I attempt to transmit telepathically. Do not embarrass me.
“Geoff, this is Michael. Michael, this is my boss at the bookstore, Geoff.”
Geoff puts a hand to his chest, pretending to look hurt.
I roll my eyes, adding, “And he’s also a dear friend.”
“Good to meet you,” Michael says, extending his hand. Geoff pounces on it with a hearty shake.
“And you, Michael. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
My cheeks grow hot, even though they’re already rosy from drinking. I elbow Geoff in the ribs, and Michael laughs while Geoff backs away, wiggling his eyebrows up and down suggestively.
Jesus Christ.
“Sorry about him,” I mumble, handing Michael a piña colada slushie and feeling slightly mortified.
But he just grins as I rest against the wall, watching people dance. He leans beside me, his gaze on Henry, chatting to one of our other neighbors.
After a while, Michael leans closer to talk to me over the music. His breath is hot on my ear, sending goosebumps scattering across my skin. “How’s the romance writing coming along?”
Heat creeps up my neck. It’s coming along quite nicely, thanks to me channeling all the lust I’ve felt for him onto the page. In fact, it’s been an extremely productive writing week. “It’s, uh, good.”
“I don’t suppose you’d let me read it?”
“God, no.”
His eyes glint as he appraises me, like he’s enjoying winding me up. “Why not?”
“Because…” I search for a reason I can actually say out loud. Because it’s literally a blow by blow—pun intended—account of everything I want to do to him. Because it’s the only way I can think of right now to not go crazy with desire for him. “It’s embarrassing,” I say at last.
“It can’t be that bad.”
I smirk. Yes, it can.
“Come on,” he urges, flashing me a flirtatious grin. “I might like it.”
My cheeks glow. “You might,” I mutter, turning back to look across the room, and beside me I hear him chuckle.
We stand side-by-side, drinking and watching the others dance. And I decide if Michael can needle me relentlessly about my romance writing, I can give him a hard time too.
“How’s the historical novel coming?”
He takes a long sip from his cup, avoiding my gaze. “It’s not.”
“Why not?”
“I told you why. My agent doesn’t want me to write it.”
I face him squarely, the alcohol giving me confidence. “And I told you to write it anyway.”
His eyes swing to me. “You did.”
“So do it. Just for fun. For you.”
He scrubs a hand over his beard, a smile peeking around his mouth. “And since when are you telling me what to do?”
“I—” I bite my lip, trying to ignore the electricity crackling between us, trying not to say something I shouldn’t. If I thought I was having fun at this party before he arrived, I was wrong. Since he got here I’ve felt alive, buzzing, drawn to him by a magnetic pull that’s impossible to fight. It’s not the alcohol, it’s him. It’s always him.
I open my mouth to
