I swallow and try — unsuccessfully — not to melt into him. I can’t help it — he touches me and I turn into a puddle of hormones.
“A beer would be good,” I breathe, wanting more than anything to turn and wrap my arms around him.
“Okay.” He presses a kiss against the sensitive spot where my neck and shoulder meet and then he’s gone, striding toward the kitchen as though we haven’t just brought the entire party to a standstill.
I watch him walk away, smiling hopelessly at his back, before turning to Gemma, Shelby, and Lila. The three of them are grinning like idiots, practically bouncing up and down as they squeal in unison and throw their arms around me until I’m crushed in the middle of a girl-pile.
The sound of Nate’s low laughter reaches my ears even across the loft.
***
Three hours, two cupcakes, and one horribly off-key rendition of Happy Birthday Dear Phoebe later, I’m sitting on the counter with my legs dangling, drinking champagne out of a paper cup and trying to convince myself that three cupcakes is too many. I survey the room, feeling warmth spread through me as my eyes move over the people in it.
Gemma and Chase are across the penthouse, trying to beat Lila and Martin, her date, at pool. Paul and Shelby are camped out in a corner, talking in hushed, angry tones. Mark and Chrissy left early, needing to get their son Winston to bed and eager to check on their newborn, Summer, who they’d left with a babysitter for the first time since she was born. Boo, sad that his pint-sized new best friend Winnie is gone, has claimed a sectional cushion and is sprawled out snoring impressively.
It’s not exactly a rave.
And yet, it’s exactly the kind of party I’ve always wanted. Just a few close friends, some really stellar sugary confections, and the warm glow of knowing there are people who care about me in this world.
“Happy?” a rumbling voice asks from my side.
I grin wider as I turn to look at him. “Best birthday ever.”
His eyes are soft as he reaches up to straighten my party hat, which has begun to droop crookedly on my head.
“Better than the year your mom rented that pony and you rode it around the backyard wearing a plastic suit of armor you stole from Parker’s closet, yelling that you were Xena the Warrior Princess?”
My mouth falls open. “Oh my god, I totally forgot about that. I must’ve been, what? Five? Six?”
“Six.” His lips are twitching. “Cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen, you with a sword instead of the princess wand your parents bought you.”
“What can I say?” I giggle. “I’m a non-conformist.”
“That was pretty much the end of your tomboy phase.” His eyes narrow as he thinks back. “From that point on, you were all sparkles and glitter.”
“Yeah, I think I discovered my mother’s Jimmy Choo collection at age six.” I shake my head. “There was no going back, after that.”
He laughs.
“She had so many pairs,” I murmur. “I used to sit on the floor of her closet and just stare at them. Row after row, all organized by color and designer. It was like a shoe museum.” I smile softly. “I used to put them on and walk around in them even though they were inches too big. Even after…” I clear my throat. “Even after we lost her, I’d still sit in there and try on her shoes. Dreaming of they day they’d finally fit.”
His eyes swirl with thoughts, then drop down to look at the Kate Spade heels on my feet. I see the moment comprehension surges through him.
“They fit now,” he says, voice low.
“Yes.” I swallow. “They fit now.”
“Little bird,” he whispers, voice thick with understanding and guilt. “I gave you such shit about those heels.”
I shrug. “You didn’t know. It’s fine, Nate.”
He exhales sharply. “You were fourteen.”
“What?”