That makes me laugh. “I would never presume that I’d be part of the wedding party—maybe they’ll elope to some tropical island. Or have the wedding in their woodland tent.”
“God, that would be horrible. Don’t get me wrong, last weekend was a good time, but…no it wasn’t.”
We both say ‘no it wasn’t’ at the same time and find ourselves laughing again.
“I hated every minute of that trip,” I say.
“Every minute?”
Well, perhaps not every minute.
“I don’t think you should lie, Juliet Robertson.”
When he says my name like that—low and deep and gravelly—the name sounds so…sexy.
“Alright,” I admit. “Maybe not every minute of it was horrible. I did enjoy the marshmallows and chocolate.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Our shoulders and arms are still touching.
It would be so easy for me to turn and be in his arms; all I have to do is pivot on my heels.
My feet are killing me and I don’t usually wear heels to work—and I hadn’t. Just so happens I had these babies in my backseat and threw them on before heading over here on the off chance Davis was home…
Picked out this outfit specifically because I knew I was coming here.
Wanted him to think I look pretty. Wanted him to…
“Chocolate and marshmallows, my ass,” he grumbles, his hand reaching around my waist and pulling me close. “Come here, you—I’ve wanted to kiss you since I walked into the kitchen.”
“You did?”
Rather than nodding, he lowers his head.
“Are you about to kiss me?” I blurt out. I have zero chill and the words come pouring out of my mouth, stomach a nervous ball of nervousness.
Ugh.
“Yes?” He looks down at me. “Or no?”
His confusion causes bubbles of laughter to leave my throat. “I’m sorry, I’m bad at this.”
Going on my tiptoes, I put my arms around his neck, this new person who feels like…
Home.
Haven’t been on a date with him, but here we are, about to kiss in his kitchen, his niece and sister in the house next door.
Davis’s hands go to my waist, moving them up and down my hips, stopping as he begins feeling around.
“What’s this?”
There is an eyeliner pencil in the pocket of my dress—yes, the dress has pockets, isn’t that the best? Another thing I hadn’t worn to school besides heels? Eyeliner.
I’d applied it in the car on the way over, then tucked it in my pocket before climbing out of the car.
Reaching down, I pull it from my pocket, holding it into the small space between us. “Just this.”
“Is that mascara?”
“No.” Silly. “It’s eyeliner. I could draw on the rest of your eyebrow now if you wanted me to.”
Davis scoffs. “You keep bringing it up, I’m beginning to think you actually want to have at it.”
I mean—might as well. Maybe it would cut some of this sexual tension in the room? I’m a moron sometimes, so I open my mouth and confirm it.
“I’m willing to see if it would help, even though they’re coming in quite nice.” I reach up and run my finger along his face where a fully formed eyebrow used to be.
“What’s that called when women have their brows tattooed on?”
“Microblading.”
My back is up against the counter when he plants his hands on the small of my waist, hefting me up and setting me on the cold, granite surface so we’re eye-to-eye. Pulling the eyeliner from my skirt pocket, I remove the cap.
Legs spread, he stands between them.
“Hold still.”
Gently and with precise strokes, I make tiny marks on his skin that resemble hairs, one by one, as his hands splay on my waist, fingers moving in circles over the fabric of my dress.
This is some weird, effed up kind of foreplay, pardon my French.
The playful kind.
“That tickles.” Davis’s voice is low, his fingers dragging up and down my ribcage, teasing my body as I do my best not to ruin the progress I’m making on this brow.
“Does it?” I pause so I can look him in the eye. “Where else are you ticklish?”
“Feet. Armpits. The usual places.”
The usual places. Hmm. “Guess I can explore those places later.”
The comment is offhanded, meant to be a joke—but judging by the look on his face, he’s stunned the words came out of my mouth. Who knew I had it in me to be that forward or flirtatious?
Not me.
Not him.
My fingers guide the pencil, my palm gently rests on his cheekbone to steady my hand—as it slides to the right, Davis’s eyes slide closed as if he wants to feel the movements or at least bask in the fact that I’m touching him.
“Is it weird that I’m enjoying this?”
I giggle softly. “Is it weird that I’m oddly satisfied with the work I’ve accomplished here? It looks so real.”
“I don’t think anything is normal about the way we met or the way we became friends,” he finally says once he opens his eyes again.