I close the fridge and face him. “How did you know?”
His half smile is sad. “Aren’t you the one that’s always reminding me we’ve been best friends for nearly a decade? I knew where you were because I know you.”
I nibble my bottom lip as I study him, trying to figure out what he’s thinking—feeling. He doesn’t look mad, but then Mark’s not exactly a heart-on-his-sleeve kind of guy.
But the last thing I want to do is play games with my best friend, so I give him the truth, even though it doesn’t exactly show me in the best light.
“I was afraid if I told you Adam reached out, you would tell me not to go.”
There. It’s not a pretty admission, but it’s honest.
For a second, Mark says nothing, then he says only a word.
“Adam.”
I swear something like relief passes over his face as he says the name. “How’d you find him?”
“He found me, actually.” I take a sip of the water. “I’d put feelers out to a mutual friend a few days ago, but I didn’t expect anything to come of it.”
“Lucky you to be wrong,” he says, in that same mild voice. “How’d it go? He pass the mistletoe test?”
I wince, because the thought of kissing Adam Bartley is so . . . so . . .
“Adam’s gay,” I blurt out. “I went out to meet him for a drink, only to find out the reason he was so eager to meet me was because he and his partner have adopted his nephew. They’re trying to get him into Emory Academy.”
I pause, waiting for him to say something, anything. He doesn’t, so I keep babbling.
“That’s why I’m home so late. I thought it was just going to be a quick drink, to see if he was the one, you know, and then I found out real quick that he was no longer interested in females, and we got to talking about schools, and kids, and then his partner joined us, and a drink turned into dinner, and . . .”
Mark holds up a hand. “Why didn’t you just tell me before you left?”
I blow out a breath. “I should have. It’s just that you thought this whole thing is so stupid, and that was before you and I . . .”
His eyebrows lift. “Yes?”
I surprise myself by blushing. “You know.”
“I do. Just wondering what verb you’d use to describe it. I’d like to know what we’re doing here, Kelly.”
“We’re . . .” I wave my hand. “Sleeping together.”
“For how long? Until your next ex calls?”
“Colin’s not going to call.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. It’s so the wrong thing to say, because Mark’s eyes go dark, his voice a growl. “Do you want Colin to call?”
I swallow. Just two days ago, I’d have thought yes—that if the guy I once thought I’d marry called and wanted to see me, I’d move heaven and earth to make it happen. That if a guy I hadn’t heard from in years and maybe had kind of sort of never quite gotten over wanted to get back together, I’d have been giddy-happy.
But at the moment, I can barely remember what Colin looks like. There’s only Mark, and the way that he’s looking at me like I’m his, and not just as a friend or sex buddy.
When I can’t find the words to reply to his question, Mark slowly pushes away from the counter, crowding me until my back bumps against the door of the fridge.
His hands cup my face, thumbs forcing my chin up so I have to meet his eyes. “You know me, Kelly. Better than anyone.” His thumbs brush against my cheeks tenderly, at odds with the fierce look on his face. “You know me, so you know I don’t like to share.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“What’s it going to be, Kelly?” he says, his lips drifting softly over my cheek. “Do we see where this thing with us goes? Or are you holding out for your Christmas miracle?”
It’s hard to think when his hands and mouth are on me. Something I think he knows, because he’s found a particularly sensitive part of my neck and licks.
I try to keep my head. “But that lady said—”
Mark goes perfectly still then pulls away. “Damn it, still with that? You seriously think you’re going to find the love of your life—someone you dumped or who dumped you—waiting under the tree on Christmas morning? Do you even hear yourself?”
I wrap my arms around myself to shield myself from the chill coming off my best friend. “You don’t have to mock.”
He closes his eyes in frustration. “I’m not trying to mock, but the woman I’m . . . sleeping with goes dashing off with former lovers the second they call. How’m I supposed to feel about that?”
I swallow. “I didn’t realize . . . I thought you and I were just having fun.”
“Not enough, obviously, if you sneak out while I’m at work to meet up with an ex.”
“He was gay! He’s in a committed relationship with a new family!”
“Which you didn’t know when you agreed to meet him!”
Rigby comes into the room, and then creeps back out again when he hears our angry voices. I don’t blame him. I sort of want to go hide under a bed myself.
But I don’t. I can’t. Because Mark’s right, and I’ve behaved horribly. But admitting that doesn’t help with any of my confusion.
I push my fingers through my hair and take a deep breath. “I’m confused. I don’t know whether to treat you like my best friend or my boyfriend.”
I expect one or both of us to freak out at the term “boyfriend,” but interestingly the word doesn’t seem quite as awkward as I anticipate, and that right there fills me with a whole fresh kind of terror.
I can’t be falling for my best friend . . . can I?
He relaxes his arms and steps closer once more. Not touching me, but within reach if I want to touch him. Which I do.
“What do you want me to be? Best friend or boyfriend?”
Both.
I swallow. “I don’t know that I’m ready to put a label on it.”
“Okay. What do you know?”
I reach out, gently set my hand on his chest, and look up. “I know I want you. I know that all I can think about is touching you, and having you touch me. I also know I’m scared of losing you. Of messing up the most important relationship of my life with sex.” He says nothing, and I search his face. “Aren’t you scared? Or at least weirded out? After all this time of being platonic, like brother and sister—”
“No.”
“What?”
He cups the back of my head and rests his forehead on mine. “I have never thought of you like a sister.”
“Sure, but you know what I mean. All this time you’ve never wanted me like that, and I’m afraid you’ll remember all the reasons you didn’t, and—”
Mark stamps out my babbling with a searing kiss. “I’ve wanted,” he says against my mouth, a little gruffly. “God, how I’ve wanted.”
My brain tries to comprehend his words, tries to understand what he means, to wrap my brain around it, but . . .
I can’t think.
Not when he’s kissing like that, not when his hands are pulling me to him, drawing me into a kiss that consumes every part of my soul.