I smile against the warmth of his palm. “Goodnight.”
He holds my gaze and then nods and turns away, taking several paces before he turns and strides back to me, making my stomach drop with anticipation. He holds my face between his hands and lowers his head to mine, his breath warm in my mouth, his lips trembling when we touch. His whole body is tense, his shoulders raised, his eyes pressed tight closed. I wish I could tell him that I know what this means to him, the courage he’s had to summon, the complicated emotions he’s battling. I’m knocked sideways by the sudden intensity of him, by the deep longing for more it awakens in me as I pull him in closer. It’s the swoon-worthy climax of our showreel moment, this beautiful, achingly sexy kiss, slow and electric, full of pure, vulnerable kiss-me-forever magic. My fingers curl into the neck of his winter jacket when his tongue brushes mine, his pulse racing beneath my knuckles as his hand slips into my hair, cradling my head. Nothing else and no one else matters as we stand here pressed together. I don’t feel the weight of the secrets I keep, or the mistrust and fear that lives in my darkest corners. This is the best first kiss of my life. Of anyone’s life.
“Was that flirting?” he whispers, his laugh shaky.
“World class,” I breathe against his lips.
He rests his forehead against mine.
“Still got it,” he says, and pulls me inside his jacket as he presses his mouth against my hair.
“Hot,” I say, because it’s taking everything I have not to drag him up the fire escape and ask him into my bed.
“I’ll see you in the morning?” He catches my bottom lip with his teeth, laying his hand flat and hot against the small of my back.
“Yes.” I turn my face into his neck, enjoying the rub of his thumb over my spine. He smells of the crisp night air and warmer, sultrier places, and I wonder how it would be to be his lover, to share his bed, his body, his life. It’s such a seductive thought. How I wish I could send all those oncoming obstacles down a different road and leave us a free run at this, because I know there’s a world out there where he and I could make each other happy. I sigh and press my lips to the pulse at the base of his throat, human and vital, primal and raw. If this can’t be forever, I’m greedily taking every second of now. I don’t know how long we stand locked together like this, neither of us ready to step away.
“Iris, do you have a cat?”
I open my eyes, startled. “Sort of. Why?”
“It’s behind you and it’s giving me the stink eye.”
I half laugh and look over my shoulder at Smirnoff, who is sitting on the step outside my narrow red front door staring at us. If he had a watch and the ability to tap it, he would.
“I think he wants his dinner,” I say.
Gio steps away from me, and the cold night air settles around me like ice. It takes Herculean willpower not to step back into his body heat.
“Go inside,” he says. “So I know you’re safe.”
“I don’t think anything’s going to happen to me between here and there,” I say, nodding toward the doorstep.
“Who knows in those heels,” he says.
“They are lethal,” I say, taking exaggerated care as I pick my way over to stand beside Smirnoff. He glances up at me with disinterest.
“Absolutely,” Gio says, his gaze locked on mine. It feels knife-edge between us: if he asked to come inside I’d say yes; if I suggested coffee he’d follow me upstairs. But I don’t, and he doesn’t. He turns and walks away, and this time he doesn’t change his mind to come back and kiss me.
14.
THERE’S A NOTE PINNED TO my door when I go upstairs.
Come up, we just saw you outside KISSING! We totally weren’t watching out for you, before you ask, I just thought I heard the cat. Coffee on, full debrief required pronto!
All I really want to do is go inside my own apartment and crawl into bed, I need to process tonight step-by-step. There’s no fighting it, though—if I don’t go up, they’ll come down, so we may as well debrief in luxury and spare Robin the horror of my lumpy couch. He’s adorable but from wealthy stock—he gets bilious whenever his expensive trousers touch man-made fibers. The fact that they live here is testament to how much he adores Bobby and the proviso that he had free rein on decorating upstairs.
Smirnoff looks up at me, plaintive. If he could speak, I think he’d have a low, menacing drawl, and right now he’d be telling me to open the stupid door and find him some tuna before he tears the place up.
“Sorry, bud, we’re going to Bobby’s,” I say, knowing he’ll follow me upstairs, and that he’s not likely to be allowed on the couch when he gets there. Or the bed. I don’t feel bad for him, though—Robin bought him a fancy cat cushion for the window ledge so he can survey his kingdom in comfort. Besides, he takes absolute liberties in my place, so it’s just as well that someone attempts to teach him manners.
Their door opens before I can knock, and Bobby’s expression is so I-know-what-you’ve-been-doing smug that I turn toward the stairs again. He catches hold of my sleeve and yanks me inside, shooing Smirnoff in too with his foot as he closes the door.
Robin appears in the kitchen doorway. “Coffee or G&T?”
I’ve had enough alcohol already tonight. “Coffee. Def coffee. I’m freezing.”
Bobby takes my coat and I crash in the corner of their huge leather sofa, feeling my muscles finally untense for the first time tonight. Bobby puts a chunky knitted blanket over my legs and Robin hands me coffee that smells decidedly of rum, then they sit and stare at me expectantly.
“So…” Bobby says, when I say nothing.
“Rum fell into your coffee.” Robin scratches his cheek. “High shelf. It was unexpected.”
“Accidents happen,” I say, not grumbling because it’s hot and calming.
We lapse into silence again, aside from Bobby fast-tapping one finger on the arm of his chair. They both know the uncomfortable silence will get me talking faster than anything.
“Okay,” I say. “So, dinner was overwhelming. They’re a big, noisy family, everyone talks at once. Food was excellent. House a Zillow addict’s wet dream. Serious chandeliers.” I motion with my arms stretched wide to demonstrate the size. “Cute babies and scraggy dogs.”
“It sounds like a Sandra Bullock movie,” Robin says.
“Love me some Sandy B,” Bobby murmurs.
I nod. Speed earned a regular spot on my mother’s movie-night list—it didn’t strictly fit our romcom diet, but Sandra and Keanu? Off the chemistry scale.
Bobby makes move-it-on gestures, impatient because he knows there’s juicier stuff than chandeliers and babies to come.
“And then —” I stop, because it feels disloyal to Gio to say more.
“Oh, come on.” Bobby rolls his eyes. “We saw you through the window with your tongue down his throat, it’s not like it’s a secret.”