Armed with three tacos each and Mexican coke for me and a Jarritos Mandarin for Charlie, we end up at the Mulholland fountain.
“Shit that’s good,” Charlie mumbles around his carnitas.
“Right?” I say, washing down a bite of my pulled chicken with ice cold Coke.
“Can’t get tacos like this in New York.”
“They’re close, but no,” I agree, “The Italian is way better, though.”
“I don’t know, I’m gonna have to try that.”
“There’s a place, by Javy actually, we’ll go when we head back. The pesto gnocchi actually melts in your mouth.”
“Now that I have to try.”
There’s something about sitting in silence with this man, less than a foot apart, not even looking at him that has me reconsidering everything. Every time we’re close – hell, every time we’re in the same room – there’s chemistry, a magnetism, something that makes the air spark and my body desperate to be closer.
I glance over to find him already looking at me, Jarritos halfway to his mouth, but he stops when our eyes meet. Then his gaze flicks down to my lips and the air electrifies around us, sharp and hot against my skin, already warm from the afternoon sun.
“Hang on, you’ve got . . .” he trails off, and I feel like I’m in some kind of extremely earnest nineties romcom as he reaches out, hesitating just before the callused edge of his thumb lands at my bottom lip. “Can I?”
And it’s so familiar, his need to know if I want him to touch me, if it’s allowed, that I find myself nodding and then, when the rough pad of his finger brushes against me, a shiver flows through my body at the slightest contact.
I could be imagining it, but I think maybe he starts to lean in, the tips of his other fingers ghost against my neck, making the shiver into a surge of pure fire in my blood.
How is it possible that it’s getting more intense?
Reaching up, my hand grasps his wrist, simultaneously holding him close, but stopping him.
He lets his hand fall away and I release it as he does. Shaking my head, I let out a heavy sigh. “Every single time.”
He laughs and then takes that sip, before saying, “There are worse things in the world.”
“True,” I agree. “But at some point . . .”
“We’re both adults, Frankie. We’ll ignore it until it goes away.”
“You think it’s going to go away?”
“I think . . .” he trails off, “I think we have to hope that it does, unless . . . you’ve changed your mind.”
And there it is. The ball is in my court and I can admit that it has been ever since I hitched a ride with him back fromJFKin the wee hours of a rainy New York morning.
“Then here’s to it going away,” I say, raising my glass bottle for him to clink his against.
“No offense, Sullivan, but I’m not drinking to that.”
And now I’m the one laughing. “Fair enough. We should get back.”
“Yeah. Do you mind if we go back to my place first? I didn’t bring anything with me and, if we’re going to be camping out at the Four Seasons for a few days, I’m gonna need a change of clothes.”
“Sure, but I pick the music.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Sullivan. Dan Wilson doesn’t a stand a chance.”
The drive is long. It’s never easy to get from one side ofLAto another, but rush hour has us in the car for nearly an hour.
“Isn’t this a little . . . obvious?” he asks, when I tune upCaliforniaby Phantom Planet.
