Big Rock(24)

Charlotte and I reminisce about our early days in business as Gin Joint fills up. The door opens, and a group of pretty, sexy ladies wearing slinky jeans and heels that go on forever pour in. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a part of me says to check them out, but the thought vanishes almost as quickly as it appears.

Charlotte finishes her old-fashioned just as my bourbon disappears. We move on to seconds as we talk about our most memorable customers over the years. The conversation is free and easy, and it reminds me of why we work so well as friends, and why it’s so much better for our friendship if we don’t ever practice kissing again. Because I don’t want to give this up. She’s the person I can most be myself with, and I like just chilling here with her. We didn’t do a ton of this when Bradley Dipstick was in the picture.

Like she can read my mind, Charlotte sighs happily and says, “I missed doing this with you when I was with that jackass.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

She tilts her head and looks up at me. “Really?” The expression on her face is one of wonder and surprise. “So it works, then?”

“What works?” I ask curiously.

She runs a finger along the side of my hair. “The device I implanted in your head so I could read your mind,” she says in mock seriousness.

I laugh and squeeze her shoulder. “You got me. Next round on me.”

“The entire night better be on you.”

“It is. And yes, I missed this, too—hanging with you when you were with him.”

“Going to your house. Binge watching TV shows, eating gummy bears or lemonheads, and drinking tequila or wine, depending on what we decided went best together.”

“We really are quite savvy at our candy-liquor pairings.”

“We are.” Charlotte sighs happily and scoots closer, almost like she’s going to cuddle with me. “You know, this might sound weird, but I’m glad I caught him screwing that woman. Buying a place with him would have been such a mistake. It was like someone was looking out for me, in a weird way. Does that sound crazy?”

“Not at all.”

“If I were with him—engaged to him and living with him—I wouldn’t be able to do this with you.”

At first I’m sure she means hanging out. But when I feel a brush of her hand against my leg, I wonder if she means something else.

I look down, and her palm is spread across my thigh. Interesting. I’m honestly not sure when that happened, or why I didn’t notice it before, but her hand is warm, and it feels good, and I suppose I’m getting used to her touching me. Maybe that’s why I didn’t realize she’s been touching me the last few minutes as we’ve been chatting. I’ve quickly grown accustomed to her hands on my body.

When the waitress strolls by, Charlotte calls her over, and orders a gin and tonic. By the time it arrives five minutes later, Charlotte’s hand is no longer resting on my thigh. It’s moving. She strokes little lines along my leg, and this isn’t just handsy anymore. This is something else entirely.

I’m caught off guard and completely unprepared for this side of Charlotte—the nighttime, after hours Charlotte, who is very much touching me like we are together, even though there’s no audience now.

“Spencer,” she says, and her voice is all floaty and happy, “I’m so glad we went into business together.”

Okay, that makes sense. She’s in one of those happy-go-lucky tipsy moods where she gushes about life being good. I can handle this. She takes a sip of her drink, sets down the glass, and shifts closer. As she moves nearer, so do her fingertips, as they migrate higher up my leg.

Whoa.

Was not expecting all this hand action, nor the subtle path she’s taking.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

Her fingers brush higher on the fabric of my pants. She’s getting friendlier. Much friendlier. Just how strong are these drinks?

“I was so miserable before we started it, and now I love what I do,” she says, and her hand on my thigh suddenly acquires a mind of its own. Or hormones of its own. Because it is on a one-way path to my dick. And it’s like someone cranked up the heat in the bar. “Do you know why else I’m glad I’m not with Bradley?”

“Why?” I ask carefully, as those nimble, eager fingers inch closer. I’m en fuego. My neck is hot. My hair might be up in flames. I could melt polar caps right about now.

“Because I’m having a great time playing pretend with you,” she says, and her right breast presses against my arm. She’s so soft, and I’m dying to know what her breasts feel like in my hands, how she’d respond to my fingers tracing circles across the sensitive flesh, the noises she’d make when I suck a nipple into my mouth.

How hard her nipples get from my lips.

There I go again.

Exactly where I shouldn’t be.

Her fingers are not inches, not centimeters, but now millimeters from the outline of my dick.

I know what to do, and at the same time, I don’t have a clue. My instincts tell me the moves to make, how to touch, how to kiss, how to f*ck. But it’s like a page from the playbook is missing. A whole damn chapter even. Because this is Charlotte, and our situation is beyond bizarre. We’re friends and business partners. We’re fake lovers who aren’t f*cking. Yesterday, we were sober and practicing kissing, and tonight we were performing for an audience.