“I know we can’t. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m curious.” He grins.
“We can’t,” I repeat again.
Those blue eyes narrow. “You’re not the least bit curious?” He slides his finger across my lip again, just like he did in the corridor. I swallow because my body feels like it’s on fire.
“Of course, I’m curious but …” I close my eyes, trying to ignore the lust that is swirling between us.
“But what?”
“I don’t want to ruin things.” This makes him pause. “We step over that line, we can’t come back from that.” He bites his bottom lip as he looks me over, the heat slowly disappearing from those blue pools.
“You’re fucking right.” He curses, taking a step back from me, putting distance between us again. “I’m sorry. What the hell am I doing?” He runs his hands through his hair. It’s as if he were under some kind of spell and we’ve just broken it. “I’ve got to go,” he says abruptly as if he can’t get away from me fast enough.
“Stop,” I yell out as I race after him. I grab his hand and halt him. “Don’t go.”
“Now I’m the one who’s embarrassed,” he tells me, and I can see it on his face. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around himand give him a big hug. He stiffens underneath me, but I don’t let up, and he finally relents and embraces me. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t,” I warn him as I continue to hug him, and it feels like he needs it. “You’re safe here,” I tell him, which earns me a big squeeze. “Stay, tonight has been a shit night for you. I’ve got tequila and an extra bed.”
“Seriously?” he asks, a little perplexed.
“Seriously,” I tell him as I grab his hand in mine and walk him to the sofa, where I demand him to sit while I go get us some tequila, because it feels like we both need to get black out drunk and forget today even happened.
The tequila doeswhat tequila does. It erases the awkwardness and replaces it with something loose, stupid, and fun. By shot four, the almost-kiss is a distant memory, and we’re arguing about who has better music taste.
“You cannot be serious right now.” I stare at him.
“What? It’s a classic,” he argues back.
“It’s terrible.”
“Please, as if your musical taste is any better. Give me your phone,” he demands.
“No,” I say, hugging it to my chest. My playlists are sacred.
“Give me your phone, St. Pierre.” He practically growls as he holds out his hand.
“If you play that song in my apartment, I will physically remove you.”
He lunges. I scream and hold my phone above my head, which does nothing because he’s six foot two and I’m not. He grabs it easily, holds it over his head, and starts scrolling through my playlists while I’m jumping, trying to get it back.
“Oh my god.” He stops scrolling. “You have an entire playlist called Sad Girl Shit.”
“Give it back.”
“Sad Girl Shit, Collette? There are forty-seven songs on here.” He looks at me with contempt.
“I am going to kill you.” I try to secure my phone back.
“Is that Adele? You’ve got four Adele songs in a row. That’s not sad girl shit, that’s a cry for help.”
I snatch the phone back. “Everyone has a sad playlist.”
“Mine has three songs on it. You have a forty-seven-song spiral.”
“Some of us feel things deeply.”
“Clearly.” He grins. “Okay, my turn.” He connects his phone to my speaker, and the opening of some song I don’t recognize fills my apartment. It’s upbeat, funky, the kind of thing that makes your body move before your brain agrees to it.