by L.H. Cosway
Whoa.
Josey.
Where did that come from?
My gaze flickered to Will. The waiter had just come and refreshed his supply of tequila, and he sat drinking quietly. The more he drank, the less rigid his posture seemed to become.
“Southsiders are considered upper class, posh types,” I explained, giving my attention back to Broderick.
“And us Northsiders are more working class,” Ophelia finished. I really was starting to like her.
“So, you guys don’t mix?” Broderick pointed between the two of us.
“Not necessarily. It’s just a stupid stereotype, and we all know those are frequently wrong. I mean, look at me and Ophie. Do you mind if I call you Ophie?”
Those buy one, get one Manhattans were taking effect.
She laughed and shook her head.
“So, between us two, I’m supposed to be the classy one, but I’m sitting here in this slutty dress, yapping away, knocking back cocktails like there’s no tomorrow. All the while Ophie’s outfit is downright demure, she’s reserved and sipping her drinks like a fucking lady. Oh! And I just cursed! You see, the stereotype is wrong.”
“Nothing wrong with a slutty dress every now and again,” Broderick winked.
Will made a weird gruff sound in the back of his throat before mustering, “It’s not slutty.”
I waved my hand through the air. “Oh, you know what I mean.”
His brows furrowed, eyes on me as he downed an entire shot glass. I shivered at the dark look aimed at me. There was something . . . gah! Sexy about it. And, oh! Maybe dangerous?
Or maybe you’re just tipsy, horny, and imagining things.
I focused my attention back on Ophelia and Broderick, because Will was making me come over all peculiar.
“And do you two live over here, or back in the States?” I asked.
“I live in the States and Ophelia is in the process of moving to New York. I came over to help her out.”
“That’s exciting! I guess it’s better for your career to live over there?”
“And for recording,” Ophelia added. “We’re going into the studio to record my first album next month.”
“Oh, I thought you already had an album out.” This was so fascinating and I wanted to hear more.
“No, I just have a few songs online. I had a YouTube channel that gained a big following, and that’s how the label found me. Broderick was actually the one who really pushed for me to get signed.”
I looked at him. “And you’re a producer. I bet that’s an interesting job.”
His eyes were on Ophelia. “It is when you find great talent.”
An odd moment passed between them. A charged moment. An atmospheric moment.
So of course, I opened my big mouth. “Well, I for one can’t wait to go home and look up some of your songs. I can’t believe I’m out sharing drinks with the Ophelia and her supercool producer, Broderick. It’s a story to tell the grandkids.”
They both laughed, and I was tipsily delighted to have found an audience who enjoyed my silly babble.
“Do you both only go by your first names?” Will asked, glancing between the two. There was something different in his voice, something it took me a second to pinpoint.
He was definitely tipsy, if not drunk.
Though I wasn’t surprised considering the amount of shots he’d had.
“Ophelia is my stage name, but my full name is Ophelia Desdemona Burke. My mam was a big fan of Shakespeare.”
“And tragic endings?” Will asked distractedly, twisting his shot glass in a circle.
“Pardon?” She leaned an inch closer to him, like she couldn’t hear the question.
“In Hamlet”—Will gave her his eyes—“Ophelia drowns herself. And at the end of Othello, Desdemona is murdered by her estranged husband.”
How does he know so much about Shakespeare?
Ophelia didn’t let him phase her. “You know your literature. I’m impressed.”
Will nodded and took another drink. I decided a change of tone was in order, so I wiggled in my seat. “Okay Broderick, you have to let me out so I can dance.”
My favorite Little Mix song was playing and girl bands made me happy.
Ophelia and Broderick shared a look, and he seemed to oblige happily. They followed me to the dance floor, and I was surprised when Will did, too. He didn’t strike me as the dancing type, especially since whenever I jived around the living room at home he preferred to smile and shake his head at me rather than take part.
We all danced as a group, not really partnering off. Even though this was supposed to be a double date, it felt more like a few friends hanging out.
Well, it did until I locked eyes with Will. I tried to ignore the way he looked at me. Actually, it was more than just mere looking. He watched me. When I turned around, Ophelia and Broderick had blended in with the crowd. They were still dancing, but they’d moved further into the fray.
A second later, a warm hand pressed against the small of my back. “You look beautiful tonight, Josey,” Will said, his mouth close to my ear.
“Thanks for helping me pick a dress,” I shouted over the music while tingles skittered down my spine. When he touched me, it was a lot to take in.
I needed to double down on thinking of him like a girl. Usually, when I was with girlfriends, I’d compliment their makeup. But he wasn’t wearing any.
So instead I said, “You did a good job shaving today. Well done!”
He didn’t respond, instead his arms circled my waist, his movements slow and yet somehow perfectly in rhythm. I inhaled a sharp breath. Will was a big guy, and when he put his arms around you it was a little overwhelming. I remembered our hug back at the apartment, how unexpected it was and how amazing it felt, even though he was completely stiff. I’d turned it into a joke, teasing and chasing him around his bedroom. This time though, it was different. He wasn’t stiff or rigid like before. Now he was liquid. His entire form melding itself to mine.
I smelled the sharp tang of tequila on his breath when he spoke again, “You’re a great dancer.”
The music changed to that “Crying in the Club” song and everything slowed down. Now the atmosphere was thick with something I couldn’t quite describe. Every hair on my body stood on end.
And then, Will pressed his mouth to the hollow of my neck.
And my brain stuttered to a stop.
Was this a dream?
It had to be.
The kiss was there and gone, a brief but acute sensation. I was so turned on I couldn’t think. I struggled and fought to find anything girl-like about him. He was just so . . . male. And sexy. The sexiest man I’d ever known, to be honest. It—he—turned my brain to mush.
Will straightened and his gaze held mine captive. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, mouth dry.
“Are you sure?” He stiffened, blinking rapidly, like he’d just realized where we were. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“You are a sexy male!” I blurted, and then squeezed my eyes shut. Damnit! “I mean, you’re just very man-like. And sexy. You’re definitely a man, obviously, but you’re also a very . . . sexy man. Who is very male.”
AAAAHHHHH!!!!
Why was I this way?
My face still scrunched, I opened one eye to gauge his reaction to my verbal shit-show. I watched as his mouth slowly curved into a grin that could only be described as one of intense masculine satisfaction. It infuriated me how attractive it was, how exposed it made me feel.
“Am I?” He seemed to be standing taller. How that was possible, I had no idea.
“I’m sure you’re aware of this.” I shook my head at myself.
“Want to know a secret?” His voice lowered, deep and dark.
I hesitated, or I meant to. I mean, my brain hesitated but my head nodded without consulting my brain. Stupid head.
He leaned in close again, so close I had to clench my thighs because his closeness ma
de my knees weak, and his mouth reacquainted itself with my ear. “I think you’re very”—he nibbled on my earlobe and, I swear to God, I could not breathe—“very”—his hot tongue flicked the spot he’d just nibbled, causing an involuntary shudder of the intensely sexy variety—“very sexy, too.”
What?
WHAT?
He thought I was sexy?
Now I was certain I was dreaming. Any minute now a human-sized bunny would walk by eating a giant purple lollipop.
His hands moved slowly down my back and skimmed over the curve of my bottom. My eyes practically bugged out of their sockets when he gave a light squeeze.
Leaning just slightly away, his gaze met mine; he seemed to be assessing my reaction. “Still okay?”
“Yup. Yes. Yep.”
He chuckled lightly and his hands left my bottom, arms circling my waist again. I briefly wondered where Ophelia and Broderick had gone, and then spotted them up on the mezzanine. They were talking, thankfully not paying Will and I any attention.
Speaking of Will, he nuzzled my ear again, this time drawing it into his mouth and giving it a light suck. This of course sent equally hot spikes of sensation on a collision course to my underpants.
“Want to get out of here?” His voice was throaty, raspy, eager.
“Sure.” I forced myself to breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe. With air came a measure of sobriety and the thought. He’s drunk. And he’s going to regret this in the morning. Leaning away, I added, “I’ll go grab the others.”
It was clear he was about to object so I moved before he had the chance to say anything, darting through the crowd, up the stairs, past the skeevy bouncer, to our booth, and away from Will. I approached Ophelia and Broderick with a hastily manufactured smile.
“Hey, you two. Will and I were thinking of getting out of here.” I feigned a yawn. Badly.
“Good idea. I’m pretty tired,” Ophelia agreed, and soon we were on our way out.
For the record, I was shaking a little and I couldn’t seem to stop swallowing. My legs were now unsteady and I had to use the handrail as support descending the stairs. But other than that? Everything was great, thanks for asking.
The four of us left the club as a group, with me and Ophelia in front. But then not two steps out the door, the paparazzi came into view. Carefully, I took a step back and hastily maneuvered a bewildered and slightly grumpy-looking Will so that he was standing next to Ophelia. Then I placed her hand in his and forced him to hold it.
The whole point of this double date was for them to be seen together, after all.
And then there was the whole matter of how Will was acting with me.
But maybe . . .
Maybe this was just how he got when he was drunk.
Camera lights flashed in our faces as we climbed into a taxi. Ophelia gave the driver her address and Will was about to give ours when I stopped him.
“I’m hungry. Can we go get food first?” Really, I just needed a little more time before we were alone in the apartment. There would be no one to stop him from seducing me like he’d been doing on the dance floor. Lord knows, I wouldn’t want to stop him. Plus, it would give him time to sober up.
“I’ll cook you something when we get home.” Will’s tone was gentle, maybe a little beseeching, and—disconcertingly—not drunk sounding.
I shook my head. “I want fast food. Everything you cook is way too healthy.”
“You can’t beat a bit of drunk food,” Ophelia agreed.
Will didn’t seem happy, but he didn’t argue either. In fact, he was quiet for the rest of the trip, studying the scenery as it went by. Meanwhile, I was a bundle of nervous energy.
After the taxi driver dropped our companions off, with a promise to meet up again, find each other on Facebook, etc., he headed in the direction of my favorite fish and chip shop. It wasn’t too far away, thankfully, which made for a quick trip. It was pretty empty when we arrived, and I walked up to the counter to order. Will hung back, watching me. I wore my shawl now, so I didn’t feel as exposed.
“Do you want anything?” I glanced at him over my shoulder.
His eyes were pure heat. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
I turned back around, fighting a rising blush. I was being ridiculous. There was nothing salacious about what he’d said, but it . . . it felt like a come-on.
“Two battered cod and chips, please,” I squeaked out.
“No problem.” The guy manning the counter typed in our order. “You can grab a seat and I’ll bring it over.”
I slid into a booth, and Will, after a brief hesitation, took the seat facing me. I rested my interlinked hands on the table and studied the menu overhead even though I’d already ordered.
This situation was too weird.
Even for me.
Earlier today we’d been roommates, friends, buddies. Sure, I was developing some feelings for him, but he didn’t know that, and I’d been so very close to turning him into a woman in my mind.
Now I wondered if Will was having feelings for me, too. The very idea was surreal. We were opposites in every way, mismatched. If we were words, we’d be antonyms.
On the other hand, we hadn’t had a single fight since I moved in with him. None of his habits annoyed me, and miraculously, none of mine seemed to annoy him. Yet.
“You are my employee,” Will said, breaking me from my thoughts.
I gave him the side-eye. “Yeah…?”
“I’ve behaved inappropriately.” The edges of his stoic expression were beginning to fray; he looked vaguely crestfallen, and he seemed to swallow with effort, his eyes falling to his hands. “I won’t—it won’t happen again. Please forgive me.”
I stared at him. His demeanor had gone from cold and reserved, to hot and eager, and then cold and reserved again, and it was giving me whiplash.
“No,” I said.
Will’s gaze cut to mine, wide with concern but also something that looked liked acceptance. “I understand. Please, allow me to make this right. I’ll—”
I waved away whatever he was about to say. “You misunderstand. I’m not going to forgive you because—as far as I’m concerned—I’m glad about what happened in the club. In fact, all signs point to me being freaking ecstatic about it.”
He blinked at me, clearly confused.
So I leaned forward and sighed. “Look, I like you, okay? And not in a I like my boss way, I don’t even really think of you like a boss, to be honest. I like you in a, I would not be opposed to making out with you way. Yes, you are technically my boss, and I am technically your employee, but that doesn’t change the fact that I feel what I feel.”
“You want to make out with me?”
“Obviously. And more. But I’m not sure where we go from here.” I leaned back, satisfied that my point had been made while my gaze swept over him. If I didn’t have four Manhattans in my system, I was sure I’d be embarrassed admitting this, but alcohol made me bold.
He studied me intently, the remorse fading, something hot taking its place. “Go out with me. On a date.”
Uhhhhh . . .
Right after he said this, our food arrived. Annoyingly, my appetite was gone, my tummy too full of butterflies. I picked up a chip and dipped it in some sauce, while Will’s eyes stayed on me, watchful.
Something I’d noticed about him, he never wasted food, always ate every scrap that was on his plate. But he wasn’t eating now. He wasn’t even moving.
I swallowed the chip, then opened my bottle of water and took a long gulp. I replaced the cap, then said, “I thought you didn’t—don’t—date.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Eilish said you don’t, so did Bryan.”
He paused, as though considering his next words carefully, finally admitting, “They’re right. I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Power imbalances. Dating someone who isn’t in the public eye, who isn’t as wealthy. I worry about leading someon
e on, hurting them. I don’t want to—haven’t wanted to—date someone unless I was seriously considering marriage.”
I lifted an eyebrow at that, picking up another chip. “How will you know whether you want to marry someone if you don’t date them?”
“I wouldn’t, but before I dated someone, I would want to believe she and I had a chance at something serious, a long-term commitment.”
I munched on my chip, swallowed, and tried not to read too much into his words, or be too freaked out by them.
Will was hot and all that, funny in an understated way, smart, kind, conscientious, but marriage? I wasn’t even sure I wanted to get married. Ever. And I certainly couldn’t see myself married to William Moore. I was zany, made mistakes often, was too free and open with my thoughts and feelings.
He was emphatically not any of that.
It would never work. A crush was one thing. Having fun together and going on a few dates was another thing. Wanting his hot body was yet another thing. But a lifetime commitment? That was a horse of a different color, the color being a shade of heartbreak with a tint of failure.
“So, you’re telling me that you think you and I—that we—have a chance at something serious?” I allowed the full weight of my skepticism to enter my voice.
Will gathered a large breath, frowning, and not speaking. And his silence spoke volumes.
Right.
I dusted off my fingers, feeling alarmingly pragmatic about the whole thing. He didn’t want to marry me. We’d been living together for a little over a month, for heaven’s sake! What a nutty idea!
“Will, this is what I think.” I dabbed at the corner of my mouth with my napkin. “I think, I cannot imagine a future where you would want me as your wife and vice versa. I mean, not you being my wife—because of course you wouldn’t be my wife—you’d be my husband. You know what I mean.”
His eyes narrowed, but otherwise he made no movement.
I continued, “I don’t want to marry you, and you don’t want to marry me. So how about this: how about we date but without any expectations? No rules, no pressure. Just for fun. See what—”
