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“I won’t say anything,” I reassured him around another mouthful of noodles. “It’s up to you if you want to tell him or not. You’re okay, so it doesn’t seem like there’s any point in telling him.”
“Thanks.” His voice was quiet. He turned his attention to his food, and we ate, the silence between us tempered by the music that he’d left playing. I was pretty sure we were both glad of it, because without it, the quietness would’ve seemed a lot more awkward.
Every now and then, he looked up or I looked up, and our eyes met. I knew my cheeks were flushed, but I was maybe eighty percent sure that his were too.
I had no clue what we were doing.
"Did you get the strawberries?”
It was an effort to lift my gaze from my pint glass, which I’d designated as a safe spot since I’d finished my meal. When my eyes met his again, I felt a jolt, like I’d been shocked with electricity. “I got them,” I said, and my voice was too fucking raspy. “I’ll get them now.”
Because I’d taken them upstairs when I’d come home, not wanting to intrude on his food prep time in the kitchen.
When I made it back downstairs, Huxley had cleared the table, and he had two plates laid out on the counter. “Brownies with the strawberries?”
There was something in his voice… “Are those hash brownies?”
He nodded, the corners of his lips kicking up into another almost-smile. “Wanna eat these and watch something while we get high?”
How the fuck had we gone from hating each other to this so quickly? However it had happened, I knew I didn’t want to go back to how we were before. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll wash the strawberries and bring them in.”
The rest of the evening felt like a dream, a hazy cloud, thanks to the weed and the beers. There was the sweetness of the strawberries and the delicious chocolatey goodness of the brownies, combined with the high of the weed. The bitterness of the beer. The noises and colours of the TV, a distant presence that my brain couldn’t focus on. The warm, delicious press of Huxley’s body all up against my side.
By the time I went to bed, all I knew was that I was feeling more relaxed than I had done in a really long time, and that I was very fucking interested in the one person that I knew I wasn’t allowed to like.
11
HUXLEY
The club was busy, packed full of guys who looked like underwear models, and the music was horrendous. Fucking Britney Spears was playing, of all things. So why was I here? Because my stepbrother had texted me earlier, luring me here with promises of a surprise that I was apparently going to love. So far, all the signs were pointing to me not loving it. This place was not my scene. I preferred dark, dingy pubs, preferably with cold beers and a live band playing.
I pushed my way to the long, crowded bar, my gaze scanning the bartenders for Cole. When I spotted him, I sent a text.
Me:
At the end of the bar. My left, your right. Where’s my surprise?
I saw his hand go to his pocket to pull out his phone, and my stomach flipped when his lips curved into a smile. This was not good. He raised his head, his eyes meeting mine, and his smile widened. I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from returning his smile. He was unfairly hot, but when he smiled, it did something to me that really shouldn’t be happening.
When he reached me, I tapped my fingers on the bar top. “Where’s my surprise? If the club is my surprise, I’m not impressed.”
His gaze dropped to my hand. “You repainted them.”
“Huh?” was all I managed to get out, before he was lifting my hand and examining my nails in the dim club lighting. My skin was prickling with…something. I didn’t want him to stop touching me, and that shocking thought was enough to have me snatching my hand back.
“What’s with this music?”
He blinked a few times, still staring at my hand, and then lifted his gaze to mine. A smirk tugged at his lips. “Revolve theme night. Throwback Tuesday. Not to your taste, huh? There’s different music on the other floors.”
“This is not my scene. I’d rather—”
Leaning across the bar, he placed a finger to my lips, his eyes widening as if he couldn’t believe he’d done it, which made two of us. I…I wanted to kiss his finger—no, to pull him across the bar and kiss the smirk right off his tempting mouth.
He exhaled hard, dropping his hand. “Sorry. I wanted to guess.” His smirk reappeared. “Let me see if I get this right. You would rather be…in a pub. Probably one with a band with a sexy, growly guitarist playing alternative rock so loud you can’t hear your mates talking over the music. And…beer.” I stared at him, and he grinned. “Damn, I’m good. You’re so easy to read.”
My eyes narrowed, and I curled my fingers into a fist. I wasn’t actually angry, more like irritated with his smugness. “Nope. You didn’t get it all right. I like listening to a lot of different music, not just alt rock, and I don’t want it to be too loud to speak.” Not all the time, anyway.
“But I got the rest right, didn’t I?”
