Funny You Should Ask(43)

“I love this song!” I shouted over the music.

“Me too!”

It was one of those classic, pure pop songs, a song that made you sing along while leaping into the air, hands waving wildly. There was no way to avoid it. The music became part of you. It became you. When a song like that came on, you were nothing more than a vessel for its splendor.

I was drunk enough and daring enough that as I shook my hips, I swiveled in the direction of the VIP area. Of Gabe. He was still sitting there, his long fingers stroking the velvet back of the couch, as if to tell me that there was still a place for me there. That if I came back and sat down next to him, that hand could be on my arm. Along my neck. Against my jaw.

Instead, I gave my shoulders a little shimmy and stretched my hands out toward him. Beckoning him.

“He never dances,” Ollie said, wrapping his arms around me, the two of us forming a two-headed, four-armed creature, both of us reaching out to Gabe. “He won’t come.”

“His loss,” I said, and turned around in Ollie’s arms. “We’re having a great time.”

I focused my attention on dancing, but Ollie was distracted.

“Bloody. Hell,” he said.

I turned and there he was. Gabe. On the dance floor. In front of me.

“Hey,” he said.

At least, that’s what I thought he said. It was so loud that I couldn’t be sure, but he’d said something, his lips curved in a smile after mouthing something that probably wasn’t any more complicated than “hey.”

But it felt like he’d said a lot more. Just in standing there. In being on the dance floor with me and Ollie.

Ollie who was practically losing his shit over Gabe being there.

“You did it,” he said, hands on my shoulders, giving me a shake. “You saucy Jewish siren—you got him on his feet.”

Gabe rolled his eyes at Ollie and then gave me a look. One that said that he’d maybe prefer being on his knees. In front of me.

No. I was being ridiculous. Even though I was drunk, and he was drunk, I was still somewhat tethered to reality. Gabe was a flirt. It wasn’t personal. It was an instinct. A reflex.

Still, my own knees went weak, and the combination of the intense sexual tension suddenly crackling between us and the shots, which had made me brave enough to summon him, had me jerking forward in a way that was neither sexy nor seductive.

It did make Gabe reach for me.

A smarter girl would have planned it exactly that way. She probably would have made it more charming and seamless, a slight swoon right into Gabe’s arms.

As it was, I jerked and flopped like a dying fish, into his arms and then right back out.

He gave me a strange look—who could blame him—and then shrugged.

The music was blaring—how was this song still going on?—so I let that and the alcohol take over. My shoulders took the lead, swaying as the music flowed through me. No one in my life could ever accuse me of being a good dancer, but I was enthusiastic and I loved it. Loved to dance.

Ollie was a good dancer, giving himself completely to the music, head thrown back, arms up, hips hitting each bass note like they were playing the drums themselves. I could sense that Gabe was still there, but I couldn’t look at him. If he was a dorky dancer—like most straight men—I wasn’t ready for my fantasy of him to dissolve completely.

The music shifted and switched over. It was another great song—whoever was in charge of the music tonight must have just plugged the speaker directly into my memories. It was the perfect nostalgia overload—all my favorite pop songs from college. From a time when I actually went out on a regular basis—when I could drink vodka–Red Bulls and still go to class the next day. I knew that I’d be hurting tomorrow, but the music was so good and I felt so good that I didn’t want to stop.

I didn’t have moves, but I had a lot of hair, so I swung it around, loving the way it felt against the low-cut back of my dress. A little intimacy that I could share with myself. I was having fun.

I swung my arms out at a key moment and hit something hard.

Gabe’s stomach.

I’d done my best to avoid touching him. It was unprofessional.

But I wanted to. Wanted him.

Wanted him with such an intensity that it scared me a bit.

I pulled my hand back, but he’d already caught me. With a move that was impossibly smooth, he gave my wrist a gentle yank and spun me into his arms.

All the touching I’d tried to avoid was happening now. From chest to knees. We were pressed up against each other, my hand trapped between us, his palm flat against my lower back. He felt good. He felt incredibly good.

I stared at his throat. There was a little sweat there and I could smell whatever extremely expensive cologne he was wearing mixed with something more primal. More like him.

I was too drunk. Not just on alcohol, but on the intoxication of being close to someone I’d lusted after for a long, long time. Someone who’d felt untouchable. Unattainable.

Someone who was definitely getting hard.

I could feel the unmistakable press of him against my stomach. Slowly, I looked away from the collar of Gabe’s shirt and upward toward his face.

He was watching me. His gaze was intense, unwavering, and I could feel him take a breath—could feel how unsteady it was.

My heart was pounding so hard it was almost painful.