Page 64 of When the Walls Come Down
“Duke Longfellow, duh,” he stated without missing a beat. “But don’t assume I don’t want to hear about your family, Maggie. You forget I have a herd of nieces and nephews too. Actually, tomorrow is Maddox’s fourth birthday party. You should come with me.”
My back shot straight and I turned on my stool to face him. “Wait, seriously?”
He took a sip of his beer. “Yeah. Seriously. I know you’ve been missing your family. And I just so happen to have a loud, obnoxious family that you can use for the day to get sick and tired of being around family again. It’ll be fun.”
“Won’t that be like a date?”
“No.” He scoffed. “It will be like two friends going to a four-year-old’s birthday together.”
“Right. My boss’s four-year-old’s birthday. I don’t know, Shane.”
He turned on his stool, his knees bumping with mine. “It’s not a big deal. Casey and Blake know about us. And since there’s not an us anymore, nobody will bat an eye. Trust me, it’s not an issue.”
I didn’t quite believe him on that front. But the idea of something as normal as a child’s birthday party sounded like exactly what I needed to get out of my funk. Excitement built in my chest, and before I had fully thought it through, I rested my hand on his thigh. “Is there going to be cake?”
His large palm landed on top of mine, his fingers curling around it. “So much fucking cake.”
I probably should have pulled away. Holding hands was definitely not in the friend zone.
But, then again, neither was spending my Saturday with his family and I had every intention of doing that.
“What kind of cake?” I asked, growing more excited by the second.
He inched closer on his stool, fitting his knees on either side of mine. “No clue. But my sister is a chef. I can promise you there will be so much food and snacks and cake it’ll be like a fat kid’s dream.” He slanted his upper body forward, bringing his face mere inches from mine. “And trust me, I know a thing or two about that.”
It could have been innocent. Us sitting there. Hand in hand. Legs intertwined. His exhales filling my inhales.
It absolutely wasn’t.
His gaze dipped to my mouth first.
Then mine dipped to his when his tongue snaked out to dampen his lips.
His breathing sped, his broad shoulders rising and falling in an all-too-familiar rhythm.
And I squirmed in my seat at the memories of the last time Shane was out of breath…and inside me.
This was not part of being friends.
This was not part of being friends.
This was not… Oh, fuck it.
Two plates landed on the bar in front of us and we both lurched away as if we’d been caught having sex in public.
Which, I’m not gonna lie, if anyone had been able to read my thoughts, that wouldn’t have been far from the truth.
Shane and I avoided eye contact as we both awkwardly righted ourselves on our stools. As if we’d become synchronized, we both downed half of our drinks before fumbling with our silverware and placing our napkins in our laps.
It was quiet as I carefully cut my steak, silently lamenting that I hadn’t asked for it medium well, thus giving me that one extra second that had been required to press my lips to his.
Which was stupid. We were the ones who had decided to take a step back and just be friends.
Friends didn’t kiss.
They didn’t even want to kiss.
But we did, and that should have been enough to make us realize how impossible this situation was. In two weeks, one of us would get fired.
If it were me, I’d more than likely end up back in Atlanta or wherever else I could find a job.
And if it were Shane, I had no idea what he’d wind up doing. He’d moved here from Seattle to take the position at Bay Brewing. He had family here, but that didn’t necessarily mean he’d stay.
There was a very, very real reason why we’d decided to be friends.
Just like there was a very, very real reason why we were failing.
We needed a clean break. Time apart, and not on the balcony at the damn brick wall of codependency.
I was a bright, well-educated woman who was well aware how this train wreck was going to end. Yet, knowing all of that, I still turned to him and asked, “So, what time tomorrow?”
He skimmed his fork full of dry lettuce across the top of my ranch dressing and smiled. “Noon.”
I slid my salad a few inches his way, an open invitation for the Dressing Thief, and replied, “Shit. I need to get a present.”
He laughed, and all the tension melted away. Well, not completely away. It was still there bubbling beneath the surface, but it became manageable again.
