Page 13 of Forked (Frenched 2)
“No.” I sat taller, ignoring the wickedly pleasant sensation between my legs at the thought of a sexual favor from Nick. “A cooking favor, actually.”
“A cooking favor? Hmm. Decidedly less exciting, but I’m intrigued nonetheless. Tell you what, cupcake.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s go down the street for a drink at Two James. You can ask for your favor, I can stare at your face—and maybe your other circumstances—we can have some whiskey for old times’ sake, and maybe we can work something out.”
Oh fuck. I knew what I’d feel like working out after “whiskey for old times’ sake” with Nick Lupo, and it had nothing to do with cooking. Could I be trusted to stick to the plan? I looked at his mouth, the first mouth I’d let anywhere near the parts of my body that were warming and tightening up right now. How many nights had I dreamed of those firm, full lips on my skin, just one more time? How many fantasies started and ended with that mouth on mine? How many orgasms had I given myself with his body, his voice, his name in my head? Too many to count, and I’d probably do it again tonight.
Goddammit, he still got to me.
My mouth opened, and my mantra escaped. “I’m over you. And I can handle this.”
Nick burst out laughing, his mouth wide, head thrown back, and my entire body warmed. I’d forgotten how much I loved making him laugh. “Ah, God. I’ve missed you,” he said, tapping my leg. “Come on, let’s go.”
I can handle this, I repeated, grabbing my purse and scooting quickly toward the door so he wouldn’t be tempted to guide me with a hand on my back. The first part of my mantra was becoming fainter in my brain.
Channeling my inner Mia, praying she existed somewhere in there, I made some rules for myself. No sitting too close, no touching, and no overdoing it on the memories or the whiskey.
When we reached the door, Nick moved ahead of me to open it, and I glided by him, catching his scent on the warm air that greeted me. It was so familiar— musky and masculine but summery, like fresh-cut grass, with a hint of something savory too, like maybe he’d been chopping herbs in the kitchen earlier. Pretty soon I’d add whiskey to the mix, and the combination might be lethal.
I glanced at him over my shoulder. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” His lips curved into a slow, sexy smile and I added a few more rules to the list.
No smelling him, no looking at his mouth, and absolutely no kissing.
Great. At this point I was going to have to ask the bartender at Two James for a blindfold, a nose plug, and a muzzle along with my whiskey. And I’d have to sit on my hands until my senses were dulled.
Guess I’d make that first shot a double.
To distract myself from the fact that Nick Lupo was walking beside me, that we were actually walking somewhere together after all these years, I began counting the steps it took to get to Two James. This is something Mia taught me to do when I really, really want to buy something but I know I don’t have the money. I count the steps it takes me to leave the store, turn a corner, put it out of my sight. Usually it works, but today the strategy was doomed to fail since the object of my desire was following me. Handbags, hot tubs, and high heels just don’t do that.
But I tried. That counts, right?
Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one. Keeping my eyes down, I watched our shoes hit the cement. Nick’s black suede oxfords with bright blue laces seemed to move in slow motion compared to my hurried, anxious steps, and I remembered how he was never the sort of person to rush. It used to drive me crazy, especially when we were running late. We would bicker about it, and one time we got into this insane philosophical discussion about time, and he accused me of always looking at it as running down, like sand in an hourglass. Finite, and slipping away from me.
But time is finite, I’d argued. And it does slip away, if you’re not careful. You only get so much of it and you have to make choices about how you want to spend it. I don’t believe in putting things off until the next day, waiting for things to go on sale, or driving around looking for a better parking spot just to get ten feet closer. I don’t sit around hoping something will go my way when I can be doing something to make it go my way or get where I want to go, faster.
I’d accused him of looking at time like an ocean—it seems infinite, like it stretches out in front of you forever, but it doesn’t. Somewhere on the other side is the other shore, and furthermore, the water level is probably shrinking.
He’d laughed and tackled me, sending me over backward onto the blanket we used to drag outside to drink whiskey and look at stars whenever we were visiting his grandmother’s farm. I hadn’t thought about that argument in years, but his next words came back to me clear as the sky had been that night. “Listen,” he’d said, stretching his long, lean body over mine. “When we’re out here in the country, and I’m looking up at that sky full of stars, somehow I just know that you and me and time and everything in the universe goes on forever. So don’t try to tell me different because I won’t listen.”
Every cell in my body had vibrated with life and feeling as I looked up at him. He said forever. He said forever. “Forever, huh?”
He rubbed his whiskey-flavored lips on mine. “Forever.”
And then for some reason I got scared that he would die young, because he was an idiot and could be reckless and foolish like only a twenty-one year old guy could, and I clutched him to me, opening my mouth and my legs and my heart as wide as possible, like taking him inside me would protect him.
I should have been worried about protecting myself.
My heart ached for a moment, remembering how much I’d loved him that night, how much we’d loved each other. I’d wanted so badly to believe he could be right.
I’d wanted forever.
“Here we are.” Nick pulled open the door to the distillery, which was housed in an old garage on Michigan Avenue. The circular bar in the center of the tasting room was busy, but one of the bartenders waved hello to Nick and gestured to some empty space in front of him. As he cleared the glasses and wiped the counter, I walked over and took a seat, dropping my purse by my feet. Nick slid onto the chair next to me.
“Nick.” The bartender, a heavily bearded guy in a blue button-down, reached across the bar and shook Nick’s hand. “Good to see you.”
“You too, Sebastian. This is my friend Coco.”
“Nice to meet you, Coco.” Sebastian reached for my hand, and I took it.
