Nobody Does It Better(13)

“Fine. Hot chocolate and Candy Land it is.”

I wish it were hot chocolate and kisses . . . kisses and stripping . . . stripping and hot, sweaty fireplace sex . . . hot, sweaty fireplace sex and promises.

But Candy Land it’ll be for now.

We move to the couch. He’s quiet at first as he reaches for his mug. “It’s a damn good thing we have hot chocolate as well. To pass the time.”

“Try it first. But if you don’t like my special hot chocolate, we can never be friends again,” I say, feeling the need to emphasize our friendship, perhaps so I can figure out if that’s where he still is. Just because I sucked on his finger like it was his dick doesn’t mean anything more will come of it. After all, we’re whiling away the hours drinking cocoa, not licking whipped cream from each other’s navels.

But when I say “friends,” he looks like he’s chewing on the word and it tastes like kale to him.

When I chew on the word, it tastes a little like guilt.

Like dark secrets I should bury forever.

I’m here in this cabin for Perri, as a wedding gift to my amazing friend. I didn’t drive up from Lucky Falls to seduce her brother. Her handsome, funny, sexy brother who I’ve been longing for over the years.

He taps the side of the mug. “Since we’re friends, why don’t you tell me what makes this hot chocolate so special?”

“Cinnamon.”

“Ah, so it has a little spice,” he says, his hazel eyes dancing playfully.

Briefly, I wonder if Jamie’s eyes will lure me the same way. Whether any other man can possibly have this effect on me. No one has before, and perhaps that’s why I haven’t found the one. Maybe that’s the reason I want the real deal but haven’t had it yet. Have I compared all my boyfriends to him? To a man I’ve never had?

All I want is to learn if the comparison is valid. And to do so by tasting the chocolate on his lips.

“Yes, it gives it a little kick,” I answer, fighting to focus on the hot chocolate. Fighting like my sanity depends on it.

“I like a little kick,” he says, and he makes it so hard not to flirt, especially as his eyes drift to my sweater, and to what’s underneath the material.

I happen to have nice boobs. They’re round, firm C-cups, which is kind of awesome. I like my breasts. I like my body, for all its curves, dips, and blips.

He lifts his chin. “By the way, what’s up with the striped sweater?”

I pluck at the knitting. “You don’t like my sweater?”

“No, I think it’s fantastic. I mean, is it part of your whole retro-girl look?”

“It is. I snagged it from a vintage shop on Etsy. I think I’m incapable of wearing clothes that were made in this century.”

“I’ve always noticed that you sort of look like you just stepped out of the 1950s, which, trust me, is great. But I’m curious why.”

I love that he’s asking. We’ve talked about so much over the years, at parties, at dinners, at the bowling alley. But here’s a new thing that we’re chatting about. “When we moved to the United States, one of the ways I practiced English was watching TV and movies. I loved Happy Days and Elvis Presley flicks—that whole vintage look. It felt very American to me. By the time I started making choices about what I wanted to wear, that was the time period I identified with.”

“That is one of the coolest stories I’ve ever heard.”

“It is?” A dose of delight zips through me. “Why?”

“Because it’s a reason. It’s not just ‘Oh, I think it’s cute.’ Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But you had a deeper reason. It says something about who you are.”

“I suppose it did. Maybe it still does.”

“Is that something you wanted when you first came here? To feel more American? I knew you then, but we were, what, six and seven? I don’t remember a ton.”

“We were young,” I say, recalling only bits and pieces of when my parents moved to California from Colombia so my scientist father could pursue better job opportunities. “I already knew enough English, but I wanted to fit in. I can seamlessly fit in now, and clearly I can speak without an accent. But here’s a little-known fact—I still dream in Spanish.”

He inches closer. It’s heady, his nearness. It makes the air crackle, and I’m thoroughly distracted once more. Especially when he asks in that low, smoky voice, “What else do you do in Spanish?”

My breath hitches, and my stomach flips. I try to think of Perri and how I’ve been lying to her for years by omission . . . but I’m also not thinking about Perri at all. I can’t keep her in my head when Shaw looks at me like he wants to be more than friends.

Like he wants to pass the time the same damn way I do. I decide to tango closer to the truth because I need to know if it’s time to break out Monopoly so I don’t jump him—or if it’s time to jump him. “Sometimes, when I’m really caught up in something, I’ll speak in Spanish.”

A naughty grin spreads on his face. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

He seems to know what I mean and where I’m heading. He’s staring at me with fire in his eyes. With hunger in his expression. My whole body sizzles, and I want to back up and revise my answer about how I want to pass the time.