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But I might be comfortable sharing him with Chip.
Chapter Thirteen
Chip
It’s a little strange to have other people in my little apartment. In all the time I’ve lived here at the Hidden Pearl, I don’t think anyone else has actually set foot in this place. Any time spent with anyone else has been either out and about at the resort or in one of the guest rooms.
I don’t entirely know what my hang-up is about it, really, since it’s just a space I occupy. Sure, it’s “my home,” but at the same time, it’s not like it’s some deeply personal reflection of me. The furniture was all provided, and while I’ve hung up some artwork and obviously my stuff’s around, for the most part, the space is pretty generic.
But despite my weird feelings, it’s also nice to have the two of them here. I’ve already been hanging out with them for a couple of hours now, between the dance class and then dinner, and the longer I’m with them, the less I want them to go.
I haven’t felt anything like this, these stirrings of actual feelings, in a long time. In spite of my initial thoughts, that I was just horny and drawn to them because they’re both so fucking attractive, I think I’m grasping that there’s something deeper running underneath.
And it should have me running for cover, but here I am leaping right into the flames.
The record reaches the end of the first side and Hazel and Brendon, who were dancing to the last track, settle back down on the couch. I move over to the record player and flip it over, but turn the volume down a bit, so we can still talk without having to shout over it.
Hazel’s breathless and her cheeks are flushed, her beautiful amber eyes glittering like topaz. But none of it is half as pretty as the glowing smile on her face. Brendon looks a little less chipper. There’s something intense in his expression that I can’t quite read.
“Anyone need any more wine?” I ask, lifting my glass and draining the last of it.
Hazel declines, but Brendon accepts another glass. I take his from him and retreat to the kitchen, killing the rest of the bottle between the two cups. I take it back out to the living room and hand Brendon is glass.
“Thanks,” he takes a sip, “You weren’t kidding, this Riesling’s awesome. What brand or winery or whatever is it from?”
“I’m gonna be honest with you,” I laugh, “The brand is German or something with a lot of consonants, and while I’d love to sound all badass just rattling it off, I cannot pronounce it for the life of me.”
Hazel laughs and Brendon chuckles. I set my wine glass on the table. “One sec, I’ll grab the bottle for you, maybe you can do better.”
“Probably not,” he admits, “Hazel’s actually likely the best bet.”
Hazel nods. “I can give it a shot.”
I lift an eyebrow with interest. “Oh? Do you speak German, Hazel?”
“Not remotely fluently,” she says, shaking her head, “I took a couple years of it in high school, but I don’t think I could hold a conversation. I could probably ask someone where the bathroom is or for the time and be okay, but that’s pretty much the extent of it.”
“Hey, that’s more than I can do in pretty much any language,” I tell her, “I know how to say a few random Spanish phrases and picked up some oddball Japanese words from an anime-obsessed roommate my freshman year in college.”
“Brendon has us both beat, though,” Hazel adds, “He actually speaks Italian.”
I feel my brows shoot up to my hairline. “Really? That’s cool.”
“Eh, if you ask my grandmother, my Italian is garbage,” he laughs, “But since she’s pretty much the only one who ever hears it, I don’t exactly spend a lot of time practicing.”
“Your mom keeps offering,” Hazel reminds him.
“She talks too fast,” he complains, “It’s hard enough to understand her in English sometimes.”
Both Hazel and I laugh. “Well, let’s see if Hazel’s high school German teacher would still be proud,” I say, ducking into the kitchen and retrieving the empty wine bottle.
I hand it to her, then pick up my wine glass and rejoin them on the couch. Brendon leans over and reads the label over Hazel’s shoulder. “Okay, yeah, I can see why that one would trip you up…”
We all laugh again. Hazel demonstrates the correct pronunciation for us, and while I’ve never really thought of German as a “sexy” language, something about hearing it from Hazel’s lips gives it a whole new sound.
“What’s your favorite phrase in German?” I ask her, wanting to hear more.
She thinks for a moment, then rattles off a string of words that mean nothing to me, but stir me all the same. “And what does that mean?” I ask her.
