“What happens if I say no?”
I shrugged. “Best case scenario, I lose a lot of money and Devine Events suffers shit publicity. Worst case, I end up next to Hoffa.”
“Do you need money, Coco?” The smile was gone, and his voice had lost its playful tone.
For a moment, I hesitated, wondering if I should let him in on my plans to buy a house. It was kind of personal, but then again, if we were going to be friends and I was asking for this big favor, I supposed I could be up front about why I needed the money so badly. “Yes, but it’s not what you think. I’m saving for a house, and there’s one that I want in particular. There’s going to be another offer on it, so my agent thinks I need to make an offer myself. I need the money for a down payment.”
“A house, huh?” He looked interested. “Where? In Grosse Pointe, near your folks? I’m surprised they don’t just buy one for you.”
“No, in Indian Village, actually. And I don’t want them to buy it for me, thank you very much.” I sighed and squeezed my eyes shut for a second, telling myself not to acknowledge his dig at my privileged upbringing. No need to scrape away the dirt over that old argument. “The house is a big old thing that needs lots of work and costs way more than I can afford, but for whatever reason…” I looked at him and lifted my shoulders. “I have to have it. I know it’s not practical. But I have to have it. And I want to do it myself.”
Nick eyed me, toying with the small glass of bourbon in his hand. After a moment, he tipped it back and set down the glass. “I think I can help you.”
My heart raced. “You’ll do it?”
He nodded. “Yes. But—”
Without thinking, I jumped off my chair and threw my arms around his neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I was completely breathless, either from excitement or the way our bodies were suddenly pressed together. He might have been a little stunned too because it took him a second to return the hug, but eventually his arms wrapped around my lower back and his knees widened so he could pull me in closer, my hips now cradled between his legs.
Erin’s voice rang in my ears, telling me this hug was a Very Bad Idea, and yet I couldn’t peel myself off him. Not when his hands began sliding up and down my sides. Not when he turned his face into my hair and inhaled. Not even when I felt his chest pushing against my aching breasts and realized it was because he was breathing heavy. God, he feels good. And smells good. And I bet if I turned my head just so, put my mouth to his neck, and then licked that spot below his ear that used to make him crazy, he’d taste good too.
What? No. No licking.
Friends do not lick one another.
Somewhere inside my head, common sense spoke up—the voice I depend on to tell me I don’t need a second piece of tiramisu or a fourth pair of red heels. I released my hold on Nick. “Sorry,” I said bashfully, backing up to my chair again. “I’m a little carried away. You have no idea what this means to me.” My heart was still beating overtime, and I couldn’t keep a smile off my face.
“No complaints here.” Nick fidgeted in his seat, adjusting his jeans, and I laughed silently, thinking that I’d probably just made the fit a little more snug in the crotch. “But don’t get too carried away yet,” he went on. “You don’t know what I’m asking in return. Maybe you’ll think the price is too high.”
“What do you mean? Angelina won’t care what your price is—she said she’d pay whatever.”
“Not my price for her. My price for you.” On the word you, he poked me in the sternum.
I crossed my arms. This was just like him, or at least the old him. Clearly he hadn’t changed much in seven years, gray hairs or not. “OK, Nick. I’ll play along. What’s the price?”
He leaned forward so that we were nearly nose to nose, his expression that of a child who just got away with stealing another cookie from the jar. “You have to spend the weekend with me.”
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.