Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)(8)

He held up a hand. “Wait. Now I’m not manly? Because I ordered champagne?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “This is coming out all wrong. You’re very manly. And champagne is very good. I’m glad we didn’t have to sneak around to find some. Do you remember the time on New Year’s Eve when we tried to figure out how to steal some from Becky and Sanders’s collection?”

“Never found that damn champagne,” he said, but the sparkle in his eyes as they latched onto hers told her he remembered the other way they’d rang in that new year—a long, lingering kiss at midnight that didn’t stop at the lips. It went on and on, and led to hands under shirts, and below belts, and low, muffled groans, heated sighs, and their names falling off each other’s lips.

The memory moved through her, heating her up. Or maybe it was just being near him now that did that.

“And now we don’t have to track it down like thieves,” he said.

“We have permission to drink it,” she said. “I suppose that’s a benefit of being older.”

He nodded. “One of them.”

“And, now it turns out champagne is good for you. Did you know that?”

“I read that recently. What’s the story there?”

She tapped the side of her temple. “Supposedly, it helps improve memory.”

“Ah,” he said with a nod. “Sometimes, that’s not my strongest suit. But that’s what Post-It notes are for.”

*

Post-It notes. Champagne. Jokes about the color of clothes.

He couldn’t believe these were their discussion points.

But this was all he could handle. His pulse hammered in his neck, and he hoped she couldn’t tell how goddamn hard it was to stand this close to her, to be so near to her, and not talk about the things he most wanted to know. The why.

Why she was here?

What did she want?

Did she ever think of him?

And how the hell was she doing, after everything that had happened to her?

But he couldn’t go there. Not yet. He couldn’t handle that kind of conversation. It would remind him too much of why he had loved her like crazy. Because he had talked to her about all those sorts of things once. Real things. Life, and death, and love, and hope, and dreams.

If they dared tread on that territory, he’d be lost.

Instead there were Post-It notes.

“Do you have them all over your home?” she asked, teasing him as the band began to set up on the low stage. “Little reminders of what to do? Put socks on before shoes? Insert key in lock before opening door?”

“Don’t forget things like where my office is located. Or what floor I live on, too. That’s another one.”

Yeah, this was so much easier, and as she laughed, he started to relax, and give in to this…date.

She leaned against the bar, and he stood facing her. The club hummed, even on a Sunday night, and the press of bodies warmed the air. Annalise’s green eyes seemed to know him intimately still; her voice was the sound he’d longed to hear those nights when he needed it most; and her lips were the ones he’d craved all the days they were apart. Now she was so close he could grab the hem of her shirt, tug her to him, and kiss her. He could run his hands along her arms, thread his fingers into her hair. He wondered if his thoughts were written in the air, or his wishes in his eyes.

He had to clench his fists to remember Mindy’s advice.

Don’t ask her if she ever thinks about you.

“Which floor do you live on?” she asked, and he startled, her words knocking him back to the present.

“Hmm?”

“Floor? Which floor?” Her lips curved up, soft and naughty.

“Why do you ask? Are you planning to surprise me later?”

“Perhaps, I will.”

Flirting.

Fucking flirting.

Just like they’d done in high school. When he was a teenager, he’d had a reputation as a complete flirt, and the girls had loved it. He’d always had an ease with the opposite sex, with talking to women, laughing with them, saying something laden with innuendo. Then, the beautiful, willowy redhead from Paris had arrived at his dad’s best friend’s home to stay with them for the year. His first thought had been that he had to see more of her.

“Want me to show you around town?” he’d asked her the day they’d met in Becky’s kitchen.

“I would love that.”

“Is there anything you want to see in Las Vegas?”

“Surprise me,” she’d said, with a curve of her lips, the hint of a smile.

“I will,” he’d said, and that had been the beginning of the love affair of his f*cking life.

He blinked back to the present as she leaned in closer to him at the bar. “Would you like that?”

He knit his brows together, trying to stay rooted to the present instead of tripping back and forth between then and now like a time traveler caught in a slip. “Would I like what?”

“For me to surprise you?”

God, yes. So much. Surprise me. Come over. Knock on my door, dim the light, and kiss me like it’s the thing you’ve been dreaming about all day.

Before he could answer, the bartender returned with their champagne. He thanked him then raised his glass, clinking it with hers. “To…” he began, but he didn’t finish.