“That was rude.” She sips her lemonade and blinks hard and fast like she did with Kyle. “And I was just getting started.”
“I think,” I say, plucking the champagne flute from her fingers and setting it on a nearby ledge, “we should retire those batting eyelashes for the night. They got what they came for.”
“Yes, they did,” she agrees. “Quinn’s been calling Kyle’s office for weeks asking for help with her app. When I saw his name on the guest list, I saw opportunity knocking. I answered.”
My equinox, indeed.
“Well, there’s music,” I point out. “And dancing.”
“Yes, everybody’s doing it apparently,” she intones, glancing around at the partygoers coupling off on the makeshift dancefloor.
“A shame if we don’t.”
“I do like to dance.” She angles a mischievous glance up at me. “Though I don’t typically fraternize with the enemy.”
I glide my hand down her back until it rests at the dip of her waist and steer her to the floor.
“Oh, I’m the enemy, am I?” I pull her into my arms and her hands rest on my shoulders.
“I’ve always thought so,” she says, glancing down at our feet and swaying to the music.
“No, you haven’t,” I remind her softly. “Not always.”
It’s the golden hour. The sun is in flux, not quite down and not high. It’s a breath before sunset, and the whole sky explodes with a final burst of color like fireworks over the ocean. The same blush washing the horizon rises on Banner’s cheeks.
“No, not always,” she agrees, eyes still trained on the ground, none of the coquettish blinking and drop-gathering she treated Kyle to for me.
Thank God.
“You know I’m not the enemy, right, Ban?” I press her closer until there’s no space between our bodies and my mouth is at her ear. “We’re on different teams, but not really enemies. Would that be an accurate assessment?”
A slight shudder ripples through her body at my breath in her hair, at her ear. She nods slowly.
“I’m seeing that. Bent confirming that you weren’t in on . . .” she looks up at me, her eyes guarded but showing more than she probably wants to “. . . that you weren’t in on what Prescott did has made me see things differently. Clearly.”
“Good.” My hands venture subtle inches from the dip of her waist to the rounded curve of her hips. “I’ve wanted to sort that out for years, but I guess we both had other things going on.”
“Yes, living in different cities.”
“Working at different firms,” I add.
“Separate paths,” she whispers, eyes locked with mine.
I twirl us in a half circle, sliding my thigh between hers, and the only thing separating us is the linen of my pants and the cotton of her dress. Her warmth seeps through the thin layers, and I want nothing more than to push under her dress and squeeze that lush ass.
Thong? Bikini? Shit. What if Banner isn’t wearing any panties at all?
I insert a small space between us so she won’t feel how hard I am imagining her bare pussy under that red dress.
“But now our paths seem to keep crossing,” I tell her. “So it feels like time to repair things. To pick up where we left off.”
“You’re right.” She smiles, the dimple denting her smooth cheek. Her makeup conceals my seven freckles, but I could tell you exactly where each of them rests on her nose. “I think reviving our friendship is a good thing.”
Friendship? That’s a start.
“I love this song,” she says, tilting her head to pick the song out from the noise of the crowd.
“Kiss Me” by Sixpence None The Richer.
“So do I.” I twirl her again and gather our joined hands against my chest.
“Oh, we finally agree on something,” she says with a laugh.
“Don’t get used to it,” I tease back.
When the song ends, Banner pulls her phone out and grimaces.
“I should get going,” she says.
“Zo’s waiting at home for you?” I force myself to ask.
It sounds so domestic and permanent and settled. I glue my smile in place, though the thought of her still sleeping with Zo Vidale makes me want to vomit my champagne lemonade on his head.
“Uh, no.” She licks her lips and slides her glance to the side. “He’s traveling. He’s actually in Argentina for a few weeks working with an orphanage down there.”
Because he’s a saint.
“But I have an early morning workout,” she says. “I’m tired and we’ve done what we came to do.”
Speak for yourself, Banner. I came to chip away at that wall around you, and I’m not sure how much progress I’ve made. We say our goodbyes to Kip and Karen, thanking them for a great evening, and zip back down the drive.
“Top down?” I ask, glancing at the carefully coiffed hair she wanted to preserve on the ride here.
“Top down,” she confirms, tugging at the pins until her hair tumbles around her shoulders and whips behind her in the wind. She glances over at me, her wide smile bright in the moonlight. “This feels fantastic.”
Me and Banner finally alone.
“Yup,” I agree. “Fantastic.”
16
Banner
I have to be careful.
I’ve done a good job concealing how Jared affects me. He’s a shark, and he’s been circling me all night. Any sign of weakness would be like blood in the water. He’d devour me whole.
But ever since Bent told me the truth, confirmed what Jared said years ago, two tiny insidious words keep worming through my brain.
What if . . .
What if Prescott hadn’t pulled his trick? What if he and his pride of lions had never interrupted us? What if I hadn’t called the cops? What if I’d believed Jared? We were young, ambitious, and had things we wanted to do. Who knows if a relationship between us could have survived the distance, our immaturity. My insecurities. His ruthless single-mindedness. Things happen the way they do for a reason. Things probably happened exactly as they should have, but sitting beside the man whom I’ve always had trouble resisting, those two words taunt me.
What if . . . the most dangerous words in the English language. Hell, in every language I speak.
On the ride home, I’m quiet, resisting his every attempt to talk. I’m contemplating the shadows of mountains and the shimmer of water in the dark. The cool air lifts my hair away from my neck. I fight the intoxicating effects of champagne lemonade traveling through my blood. I need to be alert. On guard. I’m so absorbed in ignoring the pull of Jared beside me that at first I don’t notice we’ve pulled off.
“Where are we going?” I ask, looking at him for the first time since we left the Carter’s estate.
“So you do remember I’m here,” he says lightly, sarcasm in his voice.
“Of course. I was . . .” I take in our surroundings, the road we’re traveling down. “Where are we going?”
He pulls onto a sprawling yard with a few cars parked here and there. A huge screen looms over the patch of grass.
“A drive-in?” I ask, panic stealing all my cool points.
Words like “necking” and “making out” come to mind as soon as I think drive-in. He kills the engine and faces me, illuminated by the moon and the screen.
“It’s not that late. You’ll have plenty of time to sleep.”
“No, I won’t, and we don’t know what’s playing,” I say. “We may not even want to see this movie.”
“It’s the experience that counts,” he says, his expression, the tone of his voice, everything about him persuading, urging. “What can it hurt?”
I’m formulating my argument to convince him, since that seems to be the only thing he understands, when a girl—maybe seventeen—strolls up to the car.
“Evening. I’m Sally,” she says and fishes a notepad from her pocket and a pencil from behind her ear. “What can I get you tonight?”
“We’re not staying,” I say at the same time Jared says, “Popcorn.”
She darts a confused look between us. “You want butter on that popcorn?”
“Yeah,” Jared answers, paying in cash. ”And two vanilla cokes.”
She walks away and I batten down my hatches, preparing for the fight ahead.
“This whole thing is incredibly presumptuous,” I say, irritation coloring my words. “Bringing me here without my permission. Ordering Vanilla Coke, which I’ve never had—”
“You’ll love it.”
“And buttered popcorn, which I don’t have enough points left for.”
“Points?” Dark blond brows pucker. “What do you mean points?”
Growing up overweight, struggling with it for so many years, I didn’t realize how much shame I held around food. In public, I’d imagine the chiding conversations thin people were having about what I’d ordered. I conjured up their secret dismay that I selected the burger when there was a perfectly good garden salad on the menu. I was self-conscious about my portions, always concerned I’d gotten so much people would say, “Ah, that’s why.” I didn’t want people to think about food and me in the same sentence because then they would “remember” I was overweight. To talk about dieting with someone draws attention to “my problem.” To talk about it with Jared, considering our unique, humiliating past, would have been nearly impossible.
But that was then. This is now. This is me now.
“Weight Watchers,” I say. “We assign points to food, and you’re allowed only so many points each day. I don’t think I have enough for buttered popcorn.”
“Oh. I get that.” His expression doesn’t change, but he drapes an arm along the back of my seat. “You look great, Banner.”
Before I can awkwardly thank him, he goes on.