by Kendall Ryan
Greg grimaces in playful sympathy. “Oh jeez, I’m so sorry. Lawyers, am I right?”
“I know! Thank God I was on the phone and he couldn’t see my face. I was just like . . .” She raises her voice to her perky customer-service tone. “Um, I’m afraid not, but I can recommend some other vendors to you.”
“Ouch. Sorry you lost the sale. Still, I wish I had your quick thinking . . . would’ve come in handy with last month’s client from hell.” He rubs the back of his neck. “But, uh, you probably don’t want to hear about that.”
“Actually, I love funny client stories. I mean, we’ve all got one.” She sips her drink.
“True.” He beams at her, and I frown. Okay, dude, you can dial down the googly eyes. “Man . . . you’re really cool. I’m glad we ran into each other tonight.”
It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but I think Keaton’s cheeks turn pink. “Really?”
He scoots toward her a tiny bit. “I hope I’m not being too forward.”
“No, no, it’s fine. Actually, you can be even more forward if you want. My mantra tonight has been ‘forward, it is.’” She grins, biting her lip adorably, and I repress the urge to throw something.
I try to stop listening, but I can’t, and my mood sours more with every enthralled word.
Greg. Ugh, of course he’s a Greg. A generic name for a painfully generic guy.
I knock back another slug of my drink. No wonder he feels like he has to make up for his boring personality with that tacky-ass hipster sweater. Who the hell wears a sweater to a nightclub, anyway? He looks like somebody’s colorblind grandpa. And when did my glass empty? And . . .
Why is his stupid face bugging me so much?
I excuse myself—not that anyone notices—under the pretext of ordering another drink, but really to cool off and figure out where this bad taste in my mouth is coming from.
Initially, I thought Greg was such a great choice for her. This whole thing was my idea in the first place, wasn’t it? We came here to get Keaton laid, it’s my job to help her, and it looks like we’re making great progress on that front. So, why doesn’t it feel like a success to see them click so well?
“You want a refill?” a female voice shouts over the thumping music.
“Huh?” I look up to see the same tattooed bartender who served us when we first came in.
“Vodka soda with lemon and lime, wasn’t it?” she asks.
“Oh. Yeah, that’s right, thanks. You have a good memory.” I’ll have to give her a hefty tip when we finally cash out.
She winks. “Only for the pretty ones,” she says, and I don’t even acknowledge her reply.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Any other night, I’d be all over this chick like white on rice. Tonight, though? Scoring is the furthest thing from my mind.
While she makes my drink, I keep watching the table out of the corner of my eye. Even all the way over by the bar, where I can’t hear their amazing, chemistry-laden chatter anymore, I can still tell they’re hitting it off.
Keaton laughs—not a fake polite titter, but with her mouth open wide and her nose slightly wrinkled, in the way she only does when she’s genuinely having a good time. Greg brushes a stray hair out of her face, and I want to slap his hand away.
I breathe a sigh of relief when she gets up and heads toward the restroom.
It finally occurs to me that the bartender was flirting. Even if it was only to get a bigger tip and not out of any sort of real desire, I still should have said something back. Shit, I’m seriously losing my cool here. I force myself to turn around and stop spying like a nutcase.
What the hell does Keaton see in Greg? He’s not that good-looking. From what I overheard of the conversation, he’s not that interesting either. Keaton can do way better. She deserves better.
Yeah, that must be it . . . I’m just sensing something off about the guy. My douche-radar is tingling. I’m subconsciously looking out for her best interests, that’s all.
I’m in such a hurry, I almost forget to thank the bartender when she hands over my drink. I weave my way back through the crowd to Greg’s table and lean in so he can hear me.
“Hey, listen, buddy . . . sorry, but tonight’s gonna be a no-go.”
Greg blinks like an owl behind those big glasses. “Why?”
“Uh . . .” Dammit, I didn’t think that far ahead. I just want this guy to give up the chase. I blurt out the first excuse that pops into my vodka-fuzzed brain. “Diarrhea.”
He gives me a weird look. “What?”
Too late to backpedal now. Gotta roll with it. “She had wicked diarrhea earlier. If she’s been in the bathroom that long, I’m guessing her bowels must be flaring up again.”
His face screws up in disgust. “Oh,” he mutters. “Well, thanks for the warning, I guess.”
“No problem. Sorry things didn’t work out in your favor tonight.”
I’m not remotely sorry about that. What I am sorry for is throwing Keaton under the irritable-bowel bus to do it. I didn’t mean to get quite so personal—I just panicked.
With a good-bye to his friends, Greg gets up and heads out.
Keaton approaches a few minutes later. Her walk slows to a stop and her smile wilts. She looks around, her expression morphing from confused to crestfallen as she realizes her suitor has ditched her, and my stomach clenches like I’ve swallowed hot ashes.
Fuck. I did this to her. Guilt washes over me, making my stomach pitch.
I saved her, I try to tell myself. That dude was all wrong for her. I mean, if a guy can’t handle the idea of a woman needing to use the bathroom, he’s not worth my best friend’s time anyway. Right?
Then why do I suddenly feel like such an asshole?
I head over to join her, the crowd partially screening us from Greg’s friends. She looks at me with huge blue eyes and downturned crimson lips. God, I’m being such an asshole right now.
“Did I say something wrong?” she asks in a crushed undertone.
“No, of course not. You could never say anything that bad. He just had to get going all of a sudden. I don’t know, maybe he has an early morning tomorrow.” Stop babbling, Slate. I take a deep breath. “He . . . seemed like he really liked you.”
Keaton’s brow creases. “Then why not at least get my phone number before he bailed?” A sharper note has entered her voice—so sharp that it’s as angry and bewildered as I feel.
I shrug helplessly. “I don’t know. Clearly, he’s an idiot. Come on, I’ll buy you another drink and we can try again.”
With a comforting hand on her shoulder, I walk her away from Greg’s table and back to the bar. Even my lingering guilt can’t drown out the relief I feel.
“I can’t believe I struck out every single time,” Keaton says with a whine. “I tried all night and not one goddamn penis wanted me to touch it. God, my fucking feet hurt so bad.”
I loop my arm around her waist, partially to comfort her and partially to hold her up as we stagger down the sidewalk to her apartment. It’s almost two in the morning, and the streets are deserted. Only the predawn stars are watching over us.
“Don’t think of it as striking out. Think of it as . . .” I wave my hand, searching for a positive spin. “Being selective. You just didn’t meet a good match, and it’s better to go home alone than with the wrong guy.”
She growls loudly in frustration. “I’m not looking for a friggin’ husband; I’m just trying to get laid! There’s no point in being picky. Face it, Slate, it’s not me who has the high standards here. Guys just don’t like me. End of story.”
I stop in my tracks. “That’s not true.”
She sways in my arms to face me with tipsy defiance. “Really? Because literally everything that happened tonight says different.”
“So you had one bad night? Big deal. Plenty of guys like you.”
“Prove it,” she insists, her eyes brimming with need and wounded pride.
Her body is so warm, her scent so sweet, and it all feels pe
rfectly natural to just lean in and . . .
Our lips meet. She squeaks in surprise, but before I can pull away and apologize, she kisses me back. Hard.
Her hot, soft mouth crushes against mine, opening with an intense hunger, her tongue demanding entrance, and I can’t help devouring her right back. I couldn’t stop, even if I wanted to.
Why the hell haven’t I done this before? What have I been missing out on all these years?
All my reservations and doubts are swept away in a wave of desire. No overthinking, no self-doubt, just chemistry. Pure, primal instinct. Our tongues touch and my heart rate triples because, holy fuck . . . I’m kissing my best friend.
And, fuck me, I really, really like it.
We break the kiss, both flushed and breathing a little harder, a powerful new tension buzzing between us. Goddamn . . . just that one moment of contact was enough to send every drop of blood traveling from my brain straight to my dick.
Keaton’s never given me wood, not even once. Okay, that’s a lie. There was this one time that she rubbed my shoulders and her boob brushed my arm by accident, but that was just biology. That’s all that was.
“That was . . .” I pause.
It should have felt weird, like kissing my sister. I’ve always had a strictly platonic relationship with Keaton. But I can’t lie. It was perfect. Like a textbook-perfect kiss, chemistry and attraction, and just the right amount of tongue. And I want to do it again as soon as possible.
“Yeah,” Keaton murmurs. Her gaze has darkened. She licks her lips and glances up at her apartment building. “Want to come inside?”
As I enter my apartment ahead of Slate, my head is buzzing with alcohol, questions, and a heaping dose of holy shit.
What was that kiss? Besides amazing, a little voice inside my head whispers. That was definitely not a gesture between friends.
It was sweet, hot, and so natural. But also totally unexpected. In all the years I’ve been friends with Slate, our relationship has always been strictly platonic.
I wish I could read the look on his face right now. He shrugs off his jacket, and I’m about to open my mouth to break this unbearable silence when a loud meowing begins. The patter of small paws on the wooden floor of my front hall draws our attention to Penny, ambling toward us with demands for attention.
“Hello, sweetness,” Slate says, his voice warm, and Penny purrs immediately. He crouches down before the orange fluff-muffin, offering the back of his hand for her to rub against.
I watch in amazement. Traitor. See if he’ll be the one who feeds you.
“Well, aren’t you a lover,” he murmurs. Amazingly, Penny has rolled over so her belly is exposed. He runs one of his beautiful hands gently across her downy fur, and she makes a purring noise.
“What sort of voodoo magic is this?” I mutter. “Are you a cat whisperer? She’ll never let me do this.”
“Not at all.” He smirks. “Penny just knows who here has the magic touch.”
“Magic touch?” I roll my eyes.
He shrugs. “Take it up with Penny.”
We both fall silent for a few moments. I can’t stop thinking about exactly how magic the touch of his lips felt against mine. There’s a joke on the tip of my tongue—and I consider asking him if his magic touch is exclusive to domesticated animals, or does it extend to their sexually frustrated owners too?
Instead, I clear my throat. “I should feed the monster. She’ll try to eat your hand before long.”
“I’ll help,” he says.
I lead him into the kitchen, where I prepare Penny’s food, but not too much since it’s late and she’s already fat enough. Penny digs in, flecks of wet cat food catching on her whiskers.
“Not so sweet now, are you?” I say, observing her manners in front of our guest, and Slate laughs. I love the sound of his laugh. It’s rich and deep, and I want to hear more of it. “Do you want a beer?” I ask him after a moment of comfortable silence between us.
“Sure,” he says.
He’s leaning against the fridge in a bizarrely sexy way, one foot lazily crossed in front of the other. I find myself staring at how his arms fold over his broad chest, emphasizing the size of his biceps. Have they always been that nicely defined?
I take a step toward him. He doesn’t move, comfortable where he is, comfortable with me stepping into his personal space.
“Typically, one keeps beer chilled in the fridge,” I say in a low voice, a gentle hint for him to step aside and let me open the door.
“I’ve heard that as well,” he says with a cheeky angle to his smile.
We’re only inches apart now. My hand rests on the door handle, my fingers grazing the edge of his shirtsleeve.
“So, maybe you should move?” I tug gently at his sleeve.
He eyes my fingers with a smile. “Make me, Keaton,” he says, and my heart starts to pump faster.
There’s nothing casual about the way my lips find his again in a hungry search for answers. His mouth opens against mine, and it feels just as right as it did outside.
I’ve never allowed myself to imagine how Slate might kiss, which is probably a good thing because this defies all logic. His lips are demanding, yet soft, and when his tongue sweeps against mine, I find it difficult to remain upright.
The warmth of his hands moves to my waist, and he pulls me closer against him. I lean in, wanting more. It’s been a long time since I’ve been touched so intimately, and a pleasant ache spreads south.
“Sorry,” I say with a nervous laugh when we finally part, both of us breathless.
“Don’t apologize,” he murmurs, his voice low and sensual.
His hands are still wrapped around my waist, and I’m struck by how large and sure they feel against me—a fact I’ve never noticed before. Wordless now, we stand with our chests pressed intimately against each other.
I realize that my hands are resting on his shoulders. I’ve felt them before, once when I gave him a completely innocent shoulder rub. But this feels entirely different. He’s so sturdy, I just want to melt against him.
“Keaton . . .” He’s staring at my lips.
“Yeah?” And now I’m staring at his.
“This is happening,” he says, his eyes flashing confidently on mine. “Are you okay with that?”
My gaze lifts from his lips to his eyes. The most gorgeous shade of golden brown stares back at me.
“I don’t know what this means. Do we just forget the whole wingman idea and . . . go for it?” When he doesn’t answer for a moment, I pull back slightly, suddenly self-conscious. “What?”
He senses my nervousness and plants a kiss on my forehead. It radiates warmth throughout my whole body.
“Let’s crack open those beers,” he says with a reassuring smile.
One and then two beers are popped open and we each take a swig. I put some distance between us and sit on the counter. Slate sits on one of my metallic counter stools, his hands wrapped contemplatively around his drink.
Penny is done with her meal, and she lazily ambles off to reclaim her spot on my bed. She’s not going to be comfortable for long if this conversation heads where I would like it to.
“If I help you with . . .” He trails off, searching for the words.
“My sex education?” I offer.
“Please don’t call it that.” He frowns. “It makes it sound like I’m your middle-school health teacher.”
“My sexual exploration?” I try again, this time with a flirty batting of my eyelashes. I like the way he watches my lips wrap around my beer bottle as I take another swig.
“Better. Your sexual exploration. We have to make sure it won’t mess with us.”
“Mess with us how?”
“I like having you as a friend, Keaton. I don’t want that to change.”
I’m not sure what he means. Is this his way of saying we can’t develop feelings for each other? I don’t want to think that far ahead. I want to stay in this kitchen, with him, locked i
n place by his rich, expressive eyes.
So instead of questioning it, I just say, “Of course, Slate. Nothing could ever change between us.”
“I know you wanted to find someone random to experiment with. But let’s face it, those guys at the bar were lame. And I actually care about you and what you want.”
“I know that.” I tilt my head, studying him. “I know you care about me. I want to do this with you. You don’t have to convince me.”
He looks at me for a moment, clearly contemplating something. I wish I could grab him by those sexy shoulders and shake the thoughts right out of him.
“Okay,” he finally says. He sets his beer down.
“Okay,” I repeat, and mimic his movement.
Four Mississippi seconds of excruciating silence pass between us. Then, almost in unison, we burst into laughter.
In all our years of friendship, we’ve never had such a serious conversation before. Laughter feels like someone pressed the reset button, and I’m grateful for it. It’s just Slate and me, and it’s completely natural. It’s also completely absurd, this agreement we’ve reached, but there’s no one else I’d rather make it with.
“How the hell do we even begin?” I say, catching my breath.
“We were on the right track a minute ago.”
“You know what I mean. There are definitely goals I want to reach. I have a spreadsheet—”
“I’ve seen your spreadsheet, Keaton,” he says, “and it’s very impressive. The color coding, especially.”
“Okay, shut up.” I chuckle.
“We’ll follow it as closely as you want.” He stands and takes a step toward me, and we’re within touching distance again. “And maybe even improvise a bit here and there.”
His mouth tilts in that lopsided smile he gets when he has an idea. It’s the corniest little expression, but damn, I would be a liar if I said I didn’t love it.
“I would like that.” I place a hand on his chest, enjoying the hard muscle I feel beneath his shirt. It’s like my brain is suddenly realizing he’s male for the first time ever. He takes another step, and I automatically spread my legs so he can nestle himself between them.