“I figured that, too.” She tucked her escaped strands of hair behind her ears. “I’ll just text her goodbye.”
“Wait, you’re leaving?”
“Yes, I?—”
“But you can’t.”
“Why?”
That was a good question. Admitting that the couple of minutes with her had been the only pleasurable part of my birthday—while very true—was levels of pathetic I wasn’t willing to sink to.
I scrambled for a better answer before landing on, “I haven’t cut my cake.”
She gave a pointed look around us. “And I doubt you will if you’re hiding up here.”
“True. But you can’t leave until I cut it, so ipso facto, we’ve got time.”
Her lips quirked. “Ipso facto? You’ve been hanging out with Easton too much.”
“True again,” I lied. Easton might’ve been one of my closest friends, but I’d still been avoiding him and his happiness.
He knew it, too.
A pit of guilt began to form. At the same time, the haze started to thicken around my brain. With no more incoming alcohol to keep my buzz steady, it was morphing into exhaustion. I did my best to push it all back and stay present.
“As tempting as staying out here is,” she said—or lied, too? I wasn’t sure. She gestured down to herself. “I’m not exactly dressed for it.”
Early December in LA was nowhere as cold as other places, but it could still be frigid—especially on a rooftop at night.
Fuck, I’m a thoughtless dick.
To compound that knowledge, a gust of wind blew in, ruffling her hair. With my hands still in place, it was impossible to miss the shudder that went through her.
“Let’s go inside,” I said immediately.
I was willing to risk walking backward down the stairs to keep my hold on her, but I didn’t want to chance her plummeting down with me. I grudgingly released my grip when she stepped away and watched as she moved into the beam of light from one of the dim bulbs. My breath caught.
Fucking caught.
Like something from one of the cheesy Hallmark movies I’d been in early in my career.
When the light flickered, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking of how good she would look in the candle room in Gilded.
The one where hot wax could be dripped onto her perfect skin.
Not usually my kind of kink, but…
“So what kind is it?” she asked, and I froze.
Fuck, did I verbalize an inside thought again?
I need a better filter.
Or any filter.
But she wasn’t asking what kind of kink I was usually into.
“The cake,” she clarified when I just blinked at her like a dumbass.
