The city’s cooled down, the breeze carrying the scent of rain on concrete and something fried from the bodega down the block.
Her hand brushes mine. Once. Twice.
I don’t know if it’s on purpose, but it makes my pulse skip anyway.
She tips her face up toward the city lights. “You used to come down here a lot?”
I chuckle. “Too much. Mostly trying to impress girls with my bad taste in beer and worse fake IDs.”
Sophie’s lips quirk. “You’re telling me you were once a cliché?”
“Oh, full-blown. I once puked behind that dumpster trying to prove I could chug malt liquor. Then kissed the wrong girl in a dark alley.”
She actually stumbles from laughing so hard. “You’re making this up.”
“Wish I was. Denver still calls me Swamp Mouth because of it.”
She leans into me a little, bumping my shoulder. “That’s horrifying. But also... kind of endearing?”
I glance down at her.
Hair pulled up, cheeks flushed from laughter.
I don’t remember ever feeling this way just walking next to someone. Like something is humming just beneath my skin. Like I’m waiting for her hand to find mine again. And this time, I won’t pretend it’s an accident.
So, I take it. No words, no joke. I just lace my fingers through hers.
She doesn’t pull away.
Instead, her thumb brushes mine.
We stop by a boutique.
Sophie looks at me with a glint in her eyes that makes me think she just likes torturing me. “Mind if we go inside? I need something ‘PR-appropriate’ for the next event.”
I nod and we step inside.
I settle onto a velvet bench, all rich burgundy and gold trim, and force myself to sit still, though every cell in my body is vibrating with anticipation.
She’s been laughing all night, that soft, breathy kind that punches straight through my chest. And soon enough she’ll go to the other side of the dressing room wall, close enough to touch, but impossibly out of reach. She’ll take off her clothes, and I wish I could help her.
My palms are already itching.
I pretend to check my phone. Pretend I’m not watching her like a starving man.
It’s torture. Sweet, slow, exquisite torture.
My jaw clenches.
She disappears into the dressing room, and I do my best not to follow.
Then her voice floats out, sweet and laced with danger. “I need a second opinion.”
I stand, walking to her changing room, expecting a sleek, black dress. Sophisticated. Tasteful.
What do I get?
A punch to the gut.
