“You should go. I don’t want to keep you from enjoying the party,” she says softly, her voice carrying just enough uncertainty to make me glance at her.
“I’d rather stay here,” I reply, surprising even myself.
“Why?” she whispers, her gaze meeting mine for a brief moment before flickering away. There’s a vulnerability in her tone, a softness that calls to me in a way that has me shifting in place.
“Because I want to,” I say, as if that’s enough of an explanation. And maybe it is, for now.
Our fingers brush, a fleeting touch that sends a spark up my arm. I glance down at her hand, then at her, watching the way her lips part ever so slightly. Did she feel that too?
The moment lingers, heavy and charged, and I’m not sure what to do with it. Her fingers remain where they are, barely grazing mine. It’s such a small gesture, not even aproper touch, but I can’t seem to ignore it.
She’s trouble. I know it without needing to put it into words. The way she carries herself, the way her presence pulls me in without even trying—it’s unsettling. I barely know her, yet she’s in my head now, taking up space I didn’t realize was vacant.
Trouble because I shouldn’t be here, sitting with her while the rest of the party blurs into irrelevance. Trouble because I can’t stop noticing the delicate curve of her profile in the moonlight, the soft sweep of her hair, or the way her lips press together when she thinks.
I shouldn’t be so aware of her. But I am. And that’s why staying here feels like the worst idea I’ve had in a long time.
Her eyes flicker down to our hands, and for a moment, she seems to hesitate as if confused whether she should pull away or not. But she doesn’t. I suddenly find myself wishing she would shift a little closer, hold onto me tighter. The silence stretches between us, but it’s not awkward. Our fingers remain touching, sending small jolts of electricity through me every time they move even slightly. I can’t help but wonder if she’s feeling the same way.
I sneak a glance at her out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge her thoughts. Her expression is unreadable, focused on the horizon, her lower lip caught slightly between her teeth. I link my pinkie with hers, waiting for her to push away. When she doesn’t, I sigh in relief. The small gesture feels intimate—almost more intimate than a full handhold. I look away and take a deep breath.
“I don’t think I told you,” I say, and she looks at me, her brows furrowed. “You look beautiful.” Her expression softens and a small smile forms on her lips. The compliment seems to catch her off-guard.
“Thank you,” she replies quietly, her gaze flickering away. “You look handsome, too,” she says after a moment, her gaze drifting to my face.
She takes a deep breath, her fingerswrapping tightly around mine, making my heart thump in my chest. I smile at her and slowly, our pinkies interlock tightly. Her grip is warm and comfortable. Her touch makes me feel strangely content.
“So, tell me something about yourself,” she says.
Her question catches me off guard. And against my better judgment, I ask,“What do you want to know?”
∞∞∞
7
ANYA
“Tell me something no one else knows,” I don’t know where the question emerges from but it is spilling from my lips before I can stop myself.
A smirk plays on his lips. “Wow, you really took the opportunity. You’re putting me on the spot here.”
His smirk widens, revealing a dimple in his cheek that I have never seen before. It makes him look so unfairly handsome. “Alright then, since you asked so nicely …”
He pauses for a moment, thinking, and then leans in close so only I can hear him. My heart rate increases. The proximity of his body allows me to smell the cologne he’s wearing—a subtle yet distinctly masculine scent that makes me strangely lightheaded. As he begins to speak, his lips are right next to my ear, his voice soft and low. “Here we go…” he begins, his warm breath tickling my neck, sending ashiver down my spine. I try to focus on his voice and not on the way his closeness is making me feel. His scent, the heat of his breath against my skin, makes me feel strangely breathless. “All I will say is, jail is no fun.”
My eyes widen at his words, and my head snaps towards him. Our noses are almost touching, our faces so close together that I can see the freckles on his cheeks. I feel the warmth of his breath on my lips.
I’m so close to him that I can see the tiny scars on his face. The slight indentation left by a faded injury that somehow only makes him look more endearingly rugged. He’s not just gorgeous but also impossibly real and touchable.
“You’ve been to jail?” I whisper, ignoring the way his eyes travel between my eyes and my lips.
“Yes. Once.” His eyes glint in the dark. “In Monopoly.” There’s a pause. I blink rapidly. He bursts into laughter, his head thrown back in unrestrained guffaws.
I swat his arm playfully. “You bastard!” I huff, trying to suppress a smile. “You had me thinking you were some kind of hardened criminal or something!”
He grins, still chuckling at my reaction. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist,” he says in between laughs. “But seriously, Monopoly does bring out the worst in people. I’ve seen families torn apart over that game.”
“I can’t believe I fell for that,” I smile.
