How to Fail at Flirting(11)

“Well, I am usually quiet like a little mouse,” I mused, taking a step forward to the first position in line with Jake, his hand sliding down my back.

“Really?” He quirked an eyebrow. “That’s hard to believe—you seem pretty outgoing.”

“It’s an act,” I said in a quiet voice. “Squeak!”

His laugh was low and hearty, and his big hand slipped further to rest on my waist before pulling me against his side.

I allowed my eyes to close and focused on his palm stroking between my waist and hip and not on how many drinks I’d had throughout the night. My thoughts were fuzzy and my limbs loose. Six? Smiling at my joke, I let my head fall against his shoulder. “Do you have a wedge of cheddar?”

“That was cheesy.”

I groaned, opening my eyes and looking up. “Your joke was worse than mine.”

His cheeks were a little red—he’d been drinking strong beer before switching to scotch. “You don’t think I’m funny?”

“I think it’s a good thing you’re cute,” I volleyed back, and his grip on my waist tightened, his fingers stretching toward my stomach and his thumb rubbing small circles on my lower back.

“So, you think I’m cute?”

He opened his mouth to say something else, but the staff motioned us forward to take our places in the cubicle, guiding us to the last two spots. I shot Jake a wide-eyed stare as we settled in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city stretched out in front of us, the lights from thousands of other people’s nights twinkling.

“You ready?” he asked as the staff prepared us for the apparatus to shift.

“Ready or not,” I responded as the structure tilted forward, the hydraulic mechanism loud in my ears. The view shifted, and we were no longer looking out across the city; we were looking down on it. I felt like I was flying above the streets, above the people, above everything that normally kept me quiet. My head spun as the angle increased, and I gripped the handrail. Below us, cars flew by in streams of white and red, and the shadowed rooftops of nearby buildings came into view.

“Oh, shit. We’re really up here,” Jake said, his gaze sweeping around us. “This is . . . wow.” He stretched his arm and settled his palm on my handrail, his thumb grazing the back of my hand, and the sensation thrummed with more force than the ride’s mechanics.

Feeling suspended, a thousand feet in the air, I couldn’t hold in a squeal or a nervous laugh as we tipped forward again.

Jake’s gaze was intent from his position two feet away, but he wasn’t taking in the view; he was looking at me. Holy hell.

When we tilted back to normal, two or three minutes later, he reached for my hand as we stepped back away from the glass. My head spun from the alcohol and the shift in perspective.

“We should commemorate,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket. I tucked my face in by his chest as he pulled me to him and snapped a selfie. “Another thing off your list, right?” He lingered next to my ear after that, the heat from his mouth and his warm breath tickling me, sending a zing through my body.

I can do this. He’s nice; he’s attractive and into me. I can hook up with him.

“Two things,” I responded, letting my head loll just a little closer to his ear, but stumbling as I lost my balance. “Do something new and flirt.”

“With danger?”

Something about knowing he was looking at me, taking in my skin and curves, lit me up inside. I tried to pull myself back into the moment, motioning to his phone. “No, silly. With you.” I punched him on the arm, letting my hand linger on his biceps to take in its size and to steady myself. “This is me flirting. You might not have known because I’m not good at it.”

His hands dropped to my waist. “I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. And, what a coincidence,” he said, taking a small step closer. “This is me flirting, too.”

Feeling bold, I grazed my fingers up his neck.

He gave a quick inhale when I reached his hairline. It was exciting to know my touch affected him.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said.

His eyebrows raised in surprise, but he responded quickly with an eager nod. “Okay.”

I walked with heavy, intentional steps as we weaved through the crowd toward the high-speed elevator that would take us to street level. Drunk. I am drunk. I was being irresponsible and kind of reckless and I felt uncharacteristically comfortable. I loved it.

“Will you send me that photo?”

“Of course,” he said, navigating through the app with his thumb. “Is that a sneaky way to get my phone number?” Jake handed me the phone with the contact screen open for me to enter my number.

“Seems you’re getting mine, too.”

I was breaking my own rules, but what could a phone number hurt?

“You,” he laughed, the sound light and playful near my ear, “are dangerous.”

“Me?” I feigned incredulity, pressing closer to him when the car filled with a few more people as the attraction neared closing time. “No one in my life has ever called me dangerous.”

“You got me in a glass box a thousand feet in the air.” His smile broadened, and he flattened both hands against his chest for effect. “I don’t do heights.” His consonants were a little mushy from the alcohol as we spilled from the elevator into the lobby and walked toward the street.