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Callie, whose mouth I now know the taste of. Callie, whose body I’m suddenly well too aware of beneath the jean shorts and over-sized t-shirt she’s currently wearing.
I watch her throat work as she swallows. I watch her eyes drop down across my bare chest, watching the heat rise in her cheeks before she awkwardly rips her gaze away.
“Missed you last night at Sunday dinner, Blondie.” I pull my inappropriate thoughts away from Callie as my gaze shifts to Eilish.
Eilish snorts. “Bullshit. You weren’t there, either.”
I shrug. “I swung by late.” I turn and nod pointedly at Callie. “Caughtthisone a couple too many drinks deep.”
Callie’s face sizzles. I don’t look away. I pointedly meet her gaze dead-on, hoping she gets what I’m trying to convey without words.
There. That’s your out. Your excuse. Take it.
Because what happened last night has got to go away.
It has to. For about a hundred different reasons. And I’m giving her the means to do it. Right here and now, she can just explain it all away as being drunk. I mean, I don’t know if she was, exactly. But I did taste alcohol on her lips.
“Isn’t that right, Callie?” I say slowly, looking right at her.
She can say she had too many, and that’ll be the end of it. I’ll never bring it up again, and after she gets over the embarrassment or awkwardness or whatever, it’ll just be a thing that never happened.
Eilish laughs, turning to glance at her friend, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Oh yeah?”
Say yes, I want to snarl right in her face.Say. Fucking. Yes. And this whole thing goes aw—
“No.”
She’s not averting her gaze. Sure, her face has a heat to it, creeping up her cheeks. But those big blue eyes with the long dark lashes don’t even blink as they lock right on mine.
“I wasn’t drunk.”
My jaw ticks.
Goddammit.
Goddamnyou.
“Wait, so, you’re coming today, right?!”
I stare at Callie another half second before I frown and pull my gaze to Eilish.
“What?”
“Are you coming with us?”
My brow furrows. “Coming with you where?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh my God, did you not see my texts?”
“Apparently not. I was working out and then on the phone with Cillian. Where exactly are we going?”
“Paris!” she blurts.
Wait. What?
“Excuse me?”
“We’re going to fucking PARIS!” she screams gleefully. “Remember how I was going to take the girls to the Metropolitan Museum of Art tonight for Elsa’s birthday? For the private tour of the Impressionist wing, and dinner?”
