“Oh, okay.” A thought occurred to her, and it made her lips curve into a slow smile. “Does this mean I’m actually going to see you in something other than a suit?”
“A suit would probably be a strange choice for an Upper West Side bar, so I think that’s a safe bet,” he said, finally turning to her as he reached the end of the food offerings. His blue eyes didn’t betray even the slightest hint of warmth, clearly determined to pretend that they’d only had the most cursory of meetings before. It was infuriating and only made her want to flirt harder.
“What does Judah Klein wear when he’s not wearing a suit?”
He snorted. “I hate to demystify myself to you, Arielle, but I’ll be wearing jeans, like every other guy there.”
“How… pedestrian,” she said airily, as if she weren’t dying to know how he looked in them.
“That’s me.” His gaze flicked over her, but not quickly enough for her to miss it. “And you? What do you wear to parties that don’t involve ketubahs or wedding gifts? Or is it all gown, all the time?”
“Sometimes I wear jeans. Sometimes black pants.” She resisted the urge to let her own gaze flicker back in his direction, confident she wouldn’t need visual confirmation of her next words finding their mark. “Sometimes I wear really, really short skirts. I guess we’ll see.”
The slight choked noise coming from his throat was all the response she needed.
She did not, in fact, wear really, really short skirts, almost ever, but she’d sure as hell be wearing one on Saturday night.
And she knew, without having to spare another glance his way when she left the kitchen, that he was absolutely, unquestionably watching her go.
The regrets swarmed Judah the minute he set foot in the bar, Akiva and his friends cheering for him as he entered. He lived across town specifically to avoid the hypersocial world of Akiva’s neighborhood, a choice he was extremely grateful to have made now that he’d become something of a minor celebrity.
God, even just thinking of himself with that word sounded gross, but there was no denying that alotof the guests at Akiva’s party were looking at him, just as people had at shul that morning. Even though he projected a similar stiff formality in his perfectly tailored jeans and button-down shirt to the one he’d worked hard to cultivate for his public persona, their open stares made it seem as if they’d just spotted an endangered species in the wild.
He shouldn’t have come.
He didn’t even know why he had; Akiva’d offered him an out, and instead of taking it, he’d set himself up for double the socializing. And it wasn’t as if Akiva cared that Judah always blew off his parties, or as if twenty-nine was any kind of milestone birthday. Plus, given how many people had already shown up, he’d probably get all of two minutes with his brother.
Of course, there was one other thing this party had—or would, eventually—that sitting alone in his apartment trying out new tunes for Pesach services didn’t, but that wasn’t why he was there. He’d already seen Arielle that afternoon, and for the most part, he’d passed her infuriating little test with flying colors (though hewas frustrated to learn she was every bit as attractive on an average casual Shabbos as she was in wedding attire). If anything, the connection between her and Akiva should’ve been enough to put him off completely, especially knowing Arielle used to hook up with Akiva’s obnoxious roommate.
He wasJudah Klein. He had afandom. He was being paid an obscene amount of money to attend a weeklong Pesach program in Mexico that cost families the equivalent of college tuition to attend. He’d just sung at the wedding of a billionaire CEO’s daughter. He didn’t need his little brother’s roommate’s leftovers.
But even as he gave himself the pep talk, he knew he didn’t actually think of her that way, and felt disgusted at himself for even trying to. He also knew she didn’t give a damn about any of the fancy trappings that now came with him—and worse, would laugh her ass off at him for even thinking it. “Oooh, you sang for a rich girl,” he could hear her saying in the most irritating voice. “Aren’t you faaancy?”
God, she was annoying even in her absence. Which was good. He should remember that. He should remember how incredibly infuriating she was, how filterless, how inappropriate, how—
Jesus fucking Christ.
Even if he were being waterboarded, he would recall nothing other than how Arielle Becker looked right at that moment, walking into the bar in a tiny skirt dark as the night sky and swishing around her smooth thighs, dirty blond curls swirling around her bared shoulder, lips pouty and glossed and begging to be bitten.
“Arielle!” Akiva’s roommate Danny sailed past him and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Lookinggood.”
Judah had never punched anyone in the face, but he very much wanted to punch Danny in the face.
Arielle wrinkled her nose. “Been there, done that.” She ducked out from under Danny’s arm as he laughed, and Judah forced himself to look absolutely anywhere but at her legs. Or the glimpsesof warm, tanned skin peeking above the loose neckline of the top belted into her skirt, the whole effect emphasizing her already dramatic silhouette to a borderline pornographic degree. Or her eyes, which hadn’t yet spotted him. He drifted farther into the crowd, but he was well aware of her body making its way to the bar.
He hated himself for wondering if she’d order a Shirley Temple.
He hated himself more for smiling when she did.
He’d intended to look away, but before he could, Arielle’s blue-green eyes found his from across the room, and she smirked around her straw. He felt like prey, frozen in aquamarine headlights. But Arielle wasn’t much of a hunter—you didn’t need to be when you looked likethat, he supposed—and he realized he’d been waiting for a prowling that probably wouldn’t happen.
Good.
He tore his gaze away and said a friendly “Thanks, man” to some guy who stopped by to compliment his music. He checked his email to keep his hands busy, then regretted it immediately; he had no interest in dealing with professional inquiries on a good day, let alone in the corner of a bar. Instead, he sought out Akiva, chatted with him for a few minutes, met a few of his friends, answered their questions about “being famous,” and then retreated to the shadows, letting his half-drunk Stella Artois become the object of all his focus. But soon it, too, was empty, and when he looked up from that realization, he found himself staring right at that full-lipped, smirking mouth.
“He does own a pair of jeans after all,” she drawled. “And yet you’re still the fanciest one in the room.”
“Always gotta look professional,” he said stupidly, his tongue feeling too big for his face. There was just so much of her he’d never seen, so much disservice a bridesmaid’s dress could do. “You never know when there’ll be a work emergency.”
