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I shake my head. “No, but he’s a dad now. And a partner and working his butt off at the restaurant. I’m sure we’d still hook up now and then, but…it wouldn’t be the same.” I shrug uncomfortably. “Sometimes it kind of sucks being the late bloomer. But I guess you know something about that,” I say with a tight laugh.
“Yeah, about that…” Sam glances down at his hands with a sigh that makes the moment even more awkward.
We haven’t discussed the whole “V-Card” thing since last night, but it’s been lingering in my thoughts all day. How on earth did a man as gorgeous as Sam, a man who turns heads walking through the park or out of the emergency room, a man who is clearly very successful and fun and interesting, to boot, make it to twenty-four and still be a virgin?
But then again, Cam was a virgin until recently, too, and he’s one of the best-looking guys I’ve ever met. And sweet and talented and fun and great with kids.
Relationships are just…hard, I guess.
Even short-term, getting-your-fuck-on relationships.
“I’m not sure how to—” Sam starts, only to be interrupted by a buzz from the intercom by the door.
I bounce off my chair. “Hold that thought,” I say, rushing over to punch the button and ask, “Hello, who is this?”
“Delivery from Chez Pierre,” a French-accented voice replies. “For Samuel.”
“Yes, that’s us, come on up,” I say, hitting the buzzer to unlock the front door. Digging in my purse, I ask Sam, “How much should I give him for tip?”
“Nothing,” Sam says, rising from the chair without a wince, making me hope his pain is really much better. “I already added it to the total on my card, and I’ll sign for the delivery. All I need from you is some plates and a couple of candles if you’ve got them.”
“I have something even better than candles,” I say, dumping my purse back onto the floor beside the shoe pile and starting for my room. “Just wait, I think you’re going to love this. Harlow says it’s tacky, but I think it’s awesome.”
Sam laughs. “I love tacky. You’re talking to a guy who has a tiki bar in his backyard at home.”
I pause in my doorway, turning back to him with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. “I love tiki bars. Tell me you have cheesy glasses shaped like tiki gods and pineapples.”
“A dozen of them. All vintage from the 1950s,” he says.
I slap a hand to my chest. “Be still my heart.”
Sam arches a teasing brow. “If I’d known all it took to make you melt was a tiki bar, I would have taken you on a New York City tiki bar tour instead of a jazz concert.”
“That can still happen,” I hear myself say, even as the voice in my head warns that flirting isn’t supposed to be a part of this experience.
I’m supposed to be getting to know Sam again as afriend—and then considering introducing his penis to my vagina in acasualway—not batting my eyelashes and letting him woo me, or whatever is happening here.
But before I can think of a way to bring us back to Just-Friends-Ville, the food arrives. I fetch my star globe from my room and position it in the center of the table, ensuring the room is swirling with blue and white constellations as we devour caviar, two orders of escargot with crusty bread, steak frites, and a chocolate mousse that makes my taste buds do the happy dance.
And it is lovely, nearly as lovely as watching bad reality TV on the couch together after we’ve changed into our pajamas. Sam puts his arm around me and draws me close, the way he used to when we were kids, but everything feels so different.
As kids, Sam’s arms didn’t make me sizzle or ache. They were a refuge from the big, scary world. They still feel that way, but they also feel…electric, and when he kisses me goodnight at Cam’s bedroom door, all I want to do is follow him inside and keep kissing him.
And then he rumbles against my lips, “Want to sleep here? We can just sleep and snuggle, no pressure for anything else. I just…don’t want to say goodnight.”
I don’t, either. I really, really don’t.
But if I stay, I won’t just sleep and snuggle. If I stay, my clothes are going to come off. Hell, I’m about five seconds from stripping down and pouncing on Sam like a starving mountain lion right now and we’re still a good five feet from the bed.
So instead of giving my traitorous body what it wants, I step back, toss the extra pillow I grabbed from my room at his chest and ask, “Want me to bring you a glass of water before I head to bed? Night thirst is the worst.”
Gripping the pillow in one big hand, he shakes his head with a knowing smile. “No, thanks. I’m good. But feel free to come crawl in with me if you change your mind. You have a standing invitation to any bed I’m in, Cho. Anytime, anywhere.”
“Good to know,” I say before fleeing to my room and closing the door.
But it isn’t good. It’s…dangerous.
Nearly as dangerous as this crush I’m developing on my former best friend.
