, just afraid things won’t work out, and you’ll feel stupid for trying.”
“That’ is totally a basis for fear.”
“I’m not trying to make you do anything, Britt. You don’t have to fight so hard with me.”
“I’m not sure how...not to fight.”
“You knew the other night.”
“I was pounding margaritas pretty hard that night. It was artificial courage.”
“I think it was all you. Didn’t you ever hear that drunks and kids always tell the truth?”
“Not really, no. It’s a cute theory though.”
“You want to try.”
“Do you have a crystal ball?”
“No, I have a barefoot girl in a short dress. Everything about what you’ve done—agreeing to go out with me, dressing like sex on legs, eating bread and making me laugh and letting me take off your shoes...everything tells me that you want to try, no matter what you say.”
“That’s a really skewed definition of consent.”
“No, it’s about actions speaking loudest.”
Britt tried to roll her eyes at that, wanted to discredit him, but she looked down at their legs, saw how she had crossed her long legs toward him, how she leaned in closer to hear his confidential murmur, how her hand was even now on his thigh. Her body was trying to get closer to his, practically ready to climb in his lap no matter how much lip service she paid in protest.
“Jack.”
“What?” he said, waiting for her to argue.
She kissed him. Her hand on his face, a day’s worth of stubble rasping against her sensitive palm as she kissed his upper lip, nipping at it softly and then catching her breath when his hands on her back pressed her closer. Britt wrapped her arms around his neck and opened her lips for him, taking the kiss eagerly, smiling at the thrum of life in her skin at his touch, the way he made her feel everything more vividly, made her senses sharpen into focus so she could take all of him in. Jack drew back and smiled, stroking her cheek.
“See, you make it hard to believe what you say.”
“What if I say I missed you?”
“Did you?”
“Yeah,” she said with a half-smile. “I did. I missed kissing you. I missed being, just, carefree.”
“You’re sure?”
“Like six thousand percent.”
“For an accountant that’s a lot.”
“It really is.”
“If I promise not to make a pass at you, will you come back to my apartment?”
“Why in the name of all that is holy would I agree to go to your apartment if you weren’t going to make a pass at me? Unless you have ice cream. I’d totally go for ice cream.”
“No ice cream. Just a guitar. I want to play for you.”
“Oh, hell, Jack. Don’t tease me,” she laughed. He helped her to her feet, and she put her shoes back on. They walked back to the parking garage, and he drove uptown to the sleek high-rise where he occupied the penthouse.
“FZ Towers? Does your family own everything?”