Page 18 of Forked (Frenched 2)
I was so distracted by the nearness of his mouth, I didn’t fully comprehend what he’d said. My voice came out in a whisper. “What?”
“Spend the weekend with me.”
I shrank back. “Spend the weekend with you Are you crazy? No!”
“Why not?” he asked, like it would be perfectly normal to spend a weekend with someone you hadn’t seen since he ditched you in the Bellagio bridal suite seven years ago.
“Because it’s ridiculous! I can’t even believe you’re asking me to…do that.” I gestured wildly between us¸ totally hot and bothered.
“Do what?”
“That.”
“I just want to spend time with you,” he said, his face the picture of innocence. “You’re the one who’s reading into it.”
I dropped my hands in my lap and cocked my head. “Really. You ask me to spend the weekend with you and you’re telling me you’re not thinking about sex?”
“Well, now that you mention it—”
“I’m not mentioning it. I’m vetoing it. Unequivocally.” I looked at the glasses on our wooden tray, desperate to find some drop of alcohol we’d overlooked. The absinthe was the only thing left, and even though it wasn’t my favorite, I took a less-than- advisable sized swallow. And then another, grimacing as the alcohol burned its way down my esophagus.
“What’s the problem?” he asked.
“You. Trying to get me in bed after all these years.”
“I’m not trying to get you in bed, Coco. I mean, I wouldn’t kick you out of it, but I was serious about wanting to spend time with you. Look.” He put his hands on the tops of my legs and leaned into me, the bastard. “I know you don’t really forgive me for leaving you in Vegas. And maybe you’re right—maybe getting married so young was a dumb idea, maybe it would have failed anyway, but leaving the way I did was wrong, and I’ve spent the last seven years feeling horrible about it. We spent all that time together, and I don’t even know you anymore. I’d like to know you again. As a human being. As a friend. That’s all.”
It was exactly what I’d been thinking
earlier, but somehow it didn’t sound plausible coming from him. “This would be a little more convincing if your hands weren’t on my thighs.”
“But I like your thighs.”
My brain struggled to move beyond the feeling of his palms through the fabric of my dress. I had the crazy feeling that if I lifted my skirt I’d see his handprints burned into my skin. “Is this how you get to know all your female friends? Invite them to move in for a weekend?”
“Not all of them. Just the hot ones.”
“Funny.” He still thinks I’m hot. Warmth flooded my veins. I was starting to get that dangerous feeling, the one I get when I really, really want something, and no matter how impractical the shoe or fattening the cheesecake or expensive the scotch, I just can’t bring myself to walk away. How easy, how delightful it would be to jump back into his bed. But then what? Could I trust myself not to fall for him again?
No way.
“The answer is no, Nick. We can have a drink, go for coffee, watch a movie or something. That is what friends do.”
He shrugged. “But that’s boring. And I really don’t have that much free time. In fact, I have to be in L.A. on Monday, then New York for a while, and after that, Chicago.”
“Wow. That’s a lot of traveling.” My chest caved a little. For some reason, the thought that he wouldn’t be around much made my heart ache—what the hell was that? And why was he still touching me? Did he know how it clouded my senses?
“Yeah, I’m looking for space to open another restaurant. And I still have to do events for Lick My Plate. I’m under contract for another year.”
“Oh.” My eyes dropped to his chest and arms, admiring the way he filled out his t-shirt, the way tattoos sleeved one arm to the wrist, the other to the elbow. Immediately I wondered about the rest of his body, how much ink he had, and what and where. If I spent the weekend with him, I could find out.
Common sense made a last-ditch effort.
You barely survived the first time he left you. What will you do the next time? Because that’s what he does— fights with merciless charm for what he wants from you until he gets it, and then does something to fuck it all up. He hasn’t changed.
But as my gaze wandered to his hands on my thighs, I thought about the ring I’d placed on his finger. About the one he’d placed on mine. And about our sad, silent ending, which stood in such ugly contrast to our relationship, which had been volatile, yes, but also vibrant and passionate and fun. We hadn’t even had a goodbye fight.
Sighing, I covered his hands with mine, feeling like this moment had been inevitable, no matter how hard I’d tried to forget him. Maybe we needed this.
