The Fastest Way to Fall(27)

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I GLANCED AT my reflection in the mirror, turning from one direction to another. My jeans hugged my curves. Damn, I look good. I thought about texting a photo of myself to Wes but stopped. That would be weird.

My stomach rumbled as the spicy smell of the chicken wafted through my small apartment. Ben wasn’t coming over until close to nine, and I was starving. I was usually enjoying my evening snack by that time, and my body protested the wait. Checking myself over one more time, I returned to the kitchen to snap a photo of my handiwork—something safer to send to Wes. I wanted him in my corner tonight. The strange thing was that I’d felt guilty after telling him I was cooking for Ben, this odd feeling I was doing something wrong talking to another guy, which was silly, because of course he wouldn’t care. Shortly after I hit send, Ben knocked, and I set my phone aside.

“Hey, you.” He propped an arm against the doorframe and held out a bottle of wine, and an easy smile crossed his face. He wore skinny jeans and a black button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled on his forearms. His gaze trailed momentarily to the low vee of my shirt, and I gave myself a mental high five, though I wished his eyes returned to my face a little sooner than they did.

“Hey.” I stepped aside and invited him in, but instead of moving around me, he pulled me in for a side hug.

“It smells great,” he commented, setting the wine on the counter. “Sorry I had to make it so late. I had a meeting with the showrunner. The network ran that contest a few months ago for someone to be my cohost for an episode, and we’re filming this week.”

“Oh, I remember that.” I might have entered a few . . . hundred times. “How’s it going?” I asked, pretending to search for the corkscrew.

“Oh, fine.” He strode up behind me, casually reaching around to grab the tool. I expected a flutter when he brushed against me, but it didn’t come. “It would be more fun with you.”

“I bet,” I answered, stirring the chicken, my back to him.

“You look good, Britt.”

“Thanks,” I said, spinning into a curtsy, the wooden spoon in my hand.

“Really good,” he murmured, sipping from his wineglass, his gaze traversing my body again. “That weight loss thing is working, then?”

I bristled. “The fitness project is going well. Like I said a while back, it’s not about weight loss.” I turned again to scoop the chicken mixture onto the cabbage leaves with the hope that he’d pick up on my correction. “Have you seen the posts Claire and I have been putting up?”

“I saw that you were posting.” He took a sip from his wine, and I waited for him to share his praise. “I’ve been so busy, though.” He accepted the plate I handed him, and we sat across from each other at my two-person kitchen table. “I’ll have to check them out soon.”

A thread of disappointment tugged at me. It was such a big deal for me to have content up on the site, and I wanted him to be excited for me. Ben wasn’t the cheerleader type, but he’d been in my shoes, and I thought he might be proud. Wes would be proud. I’d teased him about using the same emoji to say “good job”—the confetti one—and he’d started using random emojis. That morning, I’d returned from my class with Helen and the girls to find a snowman, panda, and a fire truck on my screen. I’d grinned to myself.

“I don’t need to read it to know it’s great, though.” Ben lifted the fork to his mouth. “And this is great. I need to let you cook for me more often.”

Not exactly sweet nothings. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I do,” he said, meeting my eyes over the wineglass before dipping to my chest again.

After eating, Ben took his wine to the couch and patted the seat for me to sit next to him instead of clearing the dishes. “You can do those later. Come sit with me.”

He emptied his glass, and I had the strangest urge to text Wes and get his advice.

“You really do look good, Britt,” Ben said, his arm stretched out over the back of the couch behind me. The woody scent of his cologne filled my nose as he leaned in and brushed my hair off my shoulder, his index finger trailing down my arm in a way that left goose bumps.

“Imagine how hot you’ll be as you keep going,” he said, settling his palm on my knee and slowly sliding it up.

I watched his hand and expected a rush of arousal to flood my system. The deluge didn’t come, and I tried to make a joke. “I don’t know,” I said. “I think I’ve always been hot.” I hoped that might give him the opportunity to course-correct his gaffe.

Instead, he chuckled, saying “Sure,” and leaned in. I’d imagined a first kiss with Ben hundreds of times, but I wasn’t expecting him to kiss so badly, his tongue pushing past my lips and almost jabbing with a snakelike motion that made it difficult to kiss back.

“These tits, Britta. How did I not notice them before?” He palmed my breast; it felt like he was attempting to knead bread and wasn’t sure how to do it. He was admiring my body, but I couldn’t engage in the cognitive gymnastics to make that feel like enough.

He’d put some kind of wax on his mustache and it was scratchy, and for a flash, I wondered if Wes was clean-shaven and what he would be like against my skin. I couldn’t picture him with the overly groomed facial hair Ben had. Wes probably had a day of stubble on his chin, like I found so sexy. Wes would slow down and make sure I was into what he was doing. I shook the thought away as the flat of Ben’s tongue moved up my neck. Focus on the guy you’ve been crushing on for years. I slid a hand down Ben’s chest and pushed him back. “Hey. Let’s slow down. We’ve got all night.”