The Fastest Way to Fall(71)

“Yes.” She bit her lip and smiled. “I don’t know why, but it is.”

My gaze tripped on her lips, and she landed a soft punch to my stomach. Her expression brightened. “Gotcha!”

“Are you trying to intimidate me?”

“Is it working?” She looked down at her hands, realized she was still touching me, and let them drop.

“You’re terrifying,” I said, turning to unlock the door. I was inviting trouble, because even after turning away, my body buzzed where she’d touched me.

The open space was dim, and the storm spread out before us through the floor-to-ceiling south-facing windows. Lightning streaked the sky, and it looked more like midnight than eight in the morning. “Wow.” She joined me in admiring the view.

I kept the air-conditioning high, and she wrapped her arms around herself.

I ran my hand over my neck to keep from wrapping her in a hug to share our warmth. “You can borrow some dry clothes. Let me get you a towel.”

I looked around at anything besides her, because now she planned to strip down in my house, and my libido screamed how unfair it was that I wasn’t going to do a damn thing about it. I rummaged through my drawers and pulled out a pair of basketball shorts and a T-shirt and handed them to her, pointing her in the direction of the bathroom.

“Thanks!”

After she closed the door, I let out a slow breath. The wedding was the next week, and we hadn’t talked about that or what had happened at her parents’ house, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to face it.

I pulled my phone from my pocket, thankful for the waterproof case. I had a few texts waiting from Cord.


Cord: It’s torrential outside and the wireless is out. You might want to work from home. Tornado watch nearby.

Wes: Shit, I might. Things ok there?

     Cord: Pearl and I are waiting it out.

Wes: Alone?

Cord: Shut up. See you later.



The door to the bathroom opened, and Britta stepped into my room. My gray T-shirt covered her curvy body. It was a worn and soft shirt from college—my favorite. Athletes got lots of apparel and swag, so it hadn’t been obvious that I couldn’t afford to buy other clothes. The fabric hugged her breasts and belly, and I tried—and failed—to not take in an eyeful. I reminded myself to keep things on a professional level.

She padded toward me in her socks, wet clothes in hand. “I like this shirt. Watch out or I might steal it.”

I chuckled. “Your right hook is getting better. I don’t know if I’d win if you fought me for it. Hey, there are tornado watches. You may want to hold off on leaving.”

She looked out the window in my bedroom, where the sky was still dark, the city blurry as rain streaked down the panes of glass. She cut her eyes between me and the storm and pulled her lip between her teeth. “I should probably get home.”

I nodded, swallowing my disappointment, because she was right. Nothing good would come from staying here together. I nodded toward the door. “I’ll walk you out.”

I leaned against my kitchen counter while she put her wet shoes back on next to the door. “So, uh, that wedding is next week. I wasn’t sure if you still wanted to go with me, or if you’d rather not. It’s okay if it’s too . . . weird now.”

She seemed to mull it over, biting her bottom lip. “I’ll still go with you. As a friend, I mean, if you still want me to. It, uh, doesn’t have to be weird.” She stood after tying the laces, hands fiddling with the hem of my shirt, her wet clothes on the floor at her feet.

I motioned to the small pile. “I’ll get you a bag for those.” Opening drawers was a good distraction from this altogether awkward moment. “And you’re right. Doesn’t have to be weird. Who knows. By next week, maybe you’ll have found someone much better to kiss.” I stilled, my hand in the drawer. What am I doing?

Britta stilled, too, and my apartment buzzed with my dumb decisions and the air conditioner. Finally, she spoke to my back. “We’ll see, I guess. I, um, have a date tomorrow.”

“You do?” In my head, my swallow was loud and exaggerated, like in a cartoon, and I felt like she’d hit me with a two-by-four. I stood and faced her, hoping she wouldn’t be able to read my reaction. “Wow. Who is he?”

“I met him on Tinder. His name is Snakebite, and he told me he runs a hedge fund. We’re taking his van to a cabin in the woods.”

I almost dropped the plastic bag I’d found for her clothes. “What?”

“Gotcha,” she chuckled, and reached for the bag. “He’s an accountant I met at work, Daaad.” She adopted a whiny teenager voice, shoving her clothes into the bag. “Are you going to demand to meet him before our date and warn him that if he hurts me, you’ll hurt him, too?”

If he hurts you, I’ll kill him. I had no right to demand any information about her date, but damn, it felt like a betrayal. No—like a rejection, even though I was the one who had put a stop to what was going on with us. It had only been a couple weeks since the morning at her parents’ house. “I was just curious,” I grumbled.

Her tone softened. “He’s a nice guy. You’d like him.”

“Good for you,” I said, reaching to her side to open the door. “I hope it goes well.”