He really is glad we ran into each other.
Am I not?
I search the face of a man I used to know. Time has been kind to him; there are no grays at his hairline, and while I can see that he’s aged, there are no distinct lines telling me stories of smiles or worries. His eyes are the same, though. They hold the same fire as they did when we met thirteen years ago. I’ve looked into these eyes a million times—as I fell in love, as I loved him, as I fell asleep, when I woke up. These eyes were my favorite for eight seasons of my life.
It’s these eyes that have me aching to kiss him now. The way he looks at me, likeI’mmagic, like he’d stay here all night just looking into my eyes, like maybe he wants to kiss me…it’s ruining my will to resist him.
I know it’s a bad idea. I know why I shouldn’t, whyweshouldn’t. It doesn’t stop me from wanting him.
And for some reason, it doesn’t keep me from stopping in the middle of the walkway, fisting the fabric of his shirt in my hands, and popping up onto my toes to meet his lips with a kiss.
It’s a chaste, wholesome kiss. Just a prolonged press of our lips. It’s practically nothing, except I feel everything. The ache in me doesn’t subside; it only grows. It wants more. It wants everything he’ll give me, and I suspect if I said the word, hewouldgive me everything. He starts to melt into me, winding his hands around my waist, but I press a hand to his chest and my fingers to my lips, as if to hold the kiss there.
“That…didn’t count,” I say, looking up at him through my eyelashes.
“That didn’t count,” he echoes with a sly smile. “Do you want to…do more things that don’t count?” he asks and winds his arms around my waist, pulling me toward him. I rest my hands on his arms as his nose brushes my jawline. My will to resist weakens every second that we stay this close. His low voice is right in my ear, seductive and enticing.
“And skip the magician? You would do that?” I tease. It comes out before I can filter myself. Flirting with Miles is too tempting, too fun. And I might be feeling my two frozen margaritas a bit…and that kiss.
“Abby, do not make me choose between you and a magic show.” He leans back to look at me, mischief in his eyes.
“I can’t believe you’d rather see a magic show than see me naked.”
I walk my fingers up his arms, over his shoulders, and lace them behind his neck. I am definitely not sober. I’m whatever version of myself feels bold enough to flirt with Miles so brazenly like this. But now that I’m thinking about it, why don’t I flirt more? Flirting is fun. Miles is fun.
“And if I want both?” he says.
“Sorry, one or the other.”
His eyes land on mine with such intensity, I bite my lip to keep from squirming. He gets serious in a way that almost sobers me up.
“If I thought for a second that you were serious, you know damn well I’d take you back to your room and slide my hands up that pretty little dress, spread those thighs open, and feast on you like it’s the last meal I’ll ever have. And if you’d like,when I’m done with that, we can fuck until the wee hours of the morning. Magic show be damned. Say the word, Abby.”
My mouth goes dry, and with his every word I forget how to breathe. My jaw works like I’m going to speak, but I really can’t manage it.
Miles is probably pleased that he’s rendered me speechless. I was so pleased to be teasing him, watching him get worked up, but I was a fool to think I could play his game and win. Miles is an expert flirt and an even better tease.
I clench my thighs together, and for a split second, I really consider taking him up on it.
But Tipsy Abby is not going to make decisions that Sober Abby would not approve of, and I’m just clear-minded enough to know what the wise course of action here is.
“Let’s…go to the magic show,” I say and ignore the part of me that wishes I had invited him back to my room instead.
13
ABBY
I have a migraine.
It took six days, and I’m glad it took as long as it did, but having a migraine in a place that is essentially one big trigger makes it difficult to navigate my day.
I shouldn’t leave my room. I should stay in a cool, dark place and rest until my excursion tonight, but by the time lunch rolls around, I’m antsy. My meds are helping, taking the pain from a 6 to a 4 on a scale of 1 to 10, and I’ve had so much water, I could be accused of being a desert plant, soaking up rain until the next time it happens.
I promise myself that if I can get out of bed and I don’t feel like throwing up for ten minutes while I get ready, I can go have lunch at the café. I promise myself that I will come straight back to the room after I eat, drink no alcohol for the rest of the day, and take more meds if the trip to lunch makes it worse.
And, worst of all, I promise myself that if I’m at a 5 or above, I’ll cancel my excursion tonight.
But I seem to be feeling well enough to leave my room, so I shove on my sunglasses and head to the café. To my delight, I spot a familiar face, but fill a plate with food before going to say anything.
