by Ney, Sara
A hand grapples for mine.
I look down and follow the arm it’s attached to: Ashley’s.
Large and strong, he has a firm grip on me as we move through the throng, not wanting to call a cab since traffic is horrific too.
“So we don’t lose each other,” he calls over his shoulder.
Right.
So we don’t lose each other.
I crash into a ton more people because my head is down as I walk, staring at our connected hands, the sight and weight of his in my own palm making my heart soar.
He never lets it go.
Not when we’ve made it out of the mob of people, not when we enter the restaurant.
When we stand there, waited to be seated, he drops my hand but immediately places his on the small of my back as if that’s where it belongs.
I sigh happily, trailing along behind the hostess when she leads us to our table, a private spot in the corner, away from the noise and hustle and bustle.
Must be part of the contest prize, one of the best tables.
“Are we celebrating something special?” the server asks when we’re seated, setting a menu in front of each of us as another one fills the water glasses that have already been placed on the table. “An anniversary perhaps? Date night?”
“Oh, we’re not a couple,” I feel the need to blurt out, pointing between Ashley and myself like an idiot.
Why, Georgia—why? Just keep your mouth shut—this is why he thinks you’re not interested and you’re making it worse!
“I meant—we’re not celebrating anything special.” I sip from the water glass to stop myself from talking, face flushing with embarrassment.
“Can I start you off with a drink?”
I sneak a peek at Ashley.
His face is unreadable, his gaze trained on the menu he’s now holding in both hands, eyes roaming the pages. Mouth set in a neutral line.
“Sure,” he says. “I’ll do a Guinness.”
My top teeth meet my bottom lip, biting down indecisively. “Um, I’ll do a glass of white wine. What’s good?”
The server gives me a few options and I choose one, not actually having a clue what I ordered but sure I’ll love it just the same.
“What looks good?” I ask, picking up my menu and opening it like a book.
“Everything.”
Steak. Lobster. Pasta. Soup.
Dessert.
It’s all here and ours for the taking; we won’t even have a bill to pay at the end of the meal.
The lines on the page in front of me might as well be in a language I can’t understand because I’m barely reading them. I just told the server we aren’t a couple and aren’t celebrating anything special; I think I just killed the whole vibe.
We’re quiet until the server comes back with our drinks; I take a healthy sip from my glass as soon as it’s set down, needing the liquid courage. Wanting the courage to turn this evening around.
“You look handsome,” I blurt out. “Blue is your color.”
Actually, any color is his color, but I’m not about to say that.
“Thanks.”
Yup. He definitely has a wall up.
I lean forward in my seat, resting my elbows on the table, noting as Ashley’s eyes roam from my face to my cleavage.
Interesting.
So he’s not so immune to me after all…or maybe he’s not so immune to a nice pair of boobs. Does it matter whose body they’re on? I wish I knew.
He’s never actually seen much of my bare skin—if you don’t count me in a sports bra, which I don’t, because that thing flattens me out to unflattering levels.
Okay.
Okay, this is good. This I can work with.
He is a man after all…
Feminine wiles I can do.
I think.
I mean, it’s been a while, but I think I can flirt and be sexy if I try hard enough.
Leaning forward even more, breasts resting on the table, plumped up as if I’m wearing a push-up bra, I smile innocently.
“How’s your beer?”
He shifts in his seat. “Cold.”
“Looks foamy.”
“It’s supposed to be at the top.”
“Is it?”
“Aye.”
He’s being cheeky, a good sign.
I lean back, drinking more wine. I feel like we’re on a first date but one that’s not going well.
There’s a strange tension between us I cannot figure out; we’re “just roommates” so he shouldn’t have been offended by me telling the server we’re not a couple.
We are not.
And he shouldn’t have been offended I told the server we aren’t celebrating anything special because we are not.
We are two friends here for the weekend.
So why is he being weird?
Because he likes you but doesn’t want to cross the line, the voice in the back of my head says. You’ve been fooling yourself this entire time if you think he isn’t interested. Moving in with him was such a huge mistake.
I rack my brain for a conversation starter and settle on: “Would you rather cut off a toe or cut off a finger?”
He looks at me surprised. “That…is so random.”
It is. “Pick one.”
“Easy—a toe. But I don’t really use many of my fingers anyway. What about you?”
“One hundred percent a toe.” I pause. “Wait—do I get to choose which toe, or will the mob be choosing for me?”
“Um, this was your question—but the mob will make that a harder choice with the addendum: they pick the toe but you get to pick the finger.”
Oh, that does spice things up.
“I’m still going with a toe. I can wear close-toed shoes, or if I’m feeling particularly sassy, I’ll get out my mob-amputated toe, pull up my pant leg, and force everyone to see it.”
“Are you in a shady Italian restaurant with your toe now? This whole scenario seems really extreme. You took it to another level.”
“I felt like it warranted more detail.”
He watches me over his pint glass. “I had no idea you were like this.”
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”
“Apparently.”
Beneath the table, I bob my foot. “Your turn to ask a question.”
It takes him a few moments. He’s silent while he thinks, but eventually he says, “Okay. Would you rather go to prison for six months, or be in a coma for an entire year?”
Oh, good question—I like it. “Prison.”
“You answered that really fast. No hesitations?”
I drink some wine. “No. I’ll just use the time to write a memoir, depending on my commissary allowance and access to notebooks.”
He nods. “I could keep money in your commissary account as long as you maintained the ‘We’ll be together when you’re finally free’ illusion. Then when you get out, I’ll tell you you’ve changed.”
“Well yeah, prison is going to change me. I’m harder now—I’ve seen too much on the inside.”
I shoot him a smile, and he laughs. “You’re a weirdo.”
“Am I?” My shoulders give a careless shrug. “What about you? Prison or coma?”
“Coma, then I wouldn’t have to remember a thing about the time that’s passed.”
“But what if you wake up and have amnesia?”
“And have to learn everything all over again…” He plays along.
“And I pretend to be your fiancée even though we’ve never gone out a day in our lives, and you take me home to your family.”
“How will I remember my family if I have amnesia?”
“From the pictures in your wallet.”
Ashley laughs. “No one has pictures in their wallet.”
“My dad has a picture of me—a small two-by-three—in his wallet from when I was in fifth grade, buck teeth and braids. That’s the only way they could show off their photo gallery back in the day.”
&nbs
p; “So one of your demands as my fake fiancée is that I keep your photo in my wallet?”
“Well, obviously we’d have to go get a few taken. Print off some selfies at the pharmacy.”
“Specifically in the likely event that I’m going to slip into this mysterious coma and need it to identify you.”
“Exactly. Ergo, we’d have to take a few to print them off for your wallet.”
“You said all that with the sole purpose of using the word ‘ergo’ in a sentence.” He rolls his eyes at me. “Fine. Let’s take a selfie.”
Now? “Here?”
“Don’t girls like taking selfies wherever and whenever they fancy?”
“Most of them.”
Ashley raises his shoulders.
I stare, blinking—inhaling a breath before pushing back my chair and rising from the table, hobbling over to stand next to him with my phone.
I hand it to him after poking open the camera. “Here, you take it. Your arms are longer.”
“Pity’s sake,” he grumbles, sounding ever so British.
I squat behind him and smile, not sure what to do with my hands. It would make a better photograph if I had my hands on him somewhere, his shoulders or…
“Maybe get closer,” he instructs in that deep voice.
I move closer, face next to his, boobs almost falling out of my dress, smile thanks to the wine.
One whiff of him fills my nose with aftershave and spice and whatever deodorant he’s wearing, making me want to plop down in his lap—or kiss the back of his neck.
Touch him.
Ash has gotten his hair cut, and his stubble isn’t shaven but he’s cleaned it up.
He looks rough and handsomely rugged and smells divine.
Like a hunky athlete.
He snaps a few more pictures and I pull a goofy face before returning to my seat next to him. Drink most of the wine in my glass out of frustration—I’m making this weirder than it has to be.
Stop overthinking it.
Have fun.
Be fun.
Be flirty.
I smile across the table at him when he returns his gaze to me, but I can’t for the life of me tell what might be going on inside his mind.
“Is keeping a neutral expression on your face one of the things you learned at school?”
“Pardon?”
Oh god, why the hell would I ask a thing like that?
“Your face—I can’t tell what you’re thinking.”
Ashley is quiet for a few more moments, lips parting as he gathers his thoughts. Takes a sip of his beer. Leans back casually in his seat, resting his elbows on the arm rest.
“You don’t want to know what I’m thinking.”
“I don’t?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Ashley continues watching me, and I can see that he’s weighing his options as if I can suddenly read his mind. If he’s completely honest, he might turn me off. If he says nothing at all, I’m going to continue wanting an answer.
There is no winning this one, and he knows it.
“You want to play yes and no?” I ask him.
“Sure.”
“You have no idea what that is, do you?” My laugh is playful as I keep drinking wine.
“No.”
“I ask a question and you just answer yes or no until I discover what’s on your mind.”
That shuts him up.
“Do you still want to play?”
A nod. “Yes.”
“Okay.” Good. “Hmmm.” I twiddle my thumbs. “Are you thinking that you’re wondering where the server is so we can finally order dinner?”
They’ve brought us a basket of bread with a plate of olive oil and vinegar but haven’t asked what we’d like for supper.
“No.”
“Do your thoughts have anything to do with food at all?”
“No.”
“Interesting.” If I was in a swiveling chair, I’d be going in slow, methodical circles, like an evil villain in a movie. “Very interesting.”
Ashley rolls his eyes.
“So you’re not thinking about food.” Tap-tap go my fingers on the tabletop. “Are you thinking about school?”
“No.”
“The house? Did you leave anything on before we left?”
“No.”
“Are you thinking about rugby or any of the players on your team?”
His grin is slow coming and mischievous. “No.”
So ‘no’ to food, school, his teammates, rugby, the house…
Which just leaves.
Me.
“Do your thoughts have anything to do with this trip?”
I sense the hesitation as he says, “Yes.”
Now I remember why I love this game so much; it’s an innocent way to find out what’s on someone’s mind without them having to divulge it all at once with an uncomfortable confession.
I try to remain cool. “Are you happy with the hotel room?”
“Yes.”
“Does it bother you that there is only one bed?”
He smirks. “No.”
My stomach flips.
“Did it bother you when I told the server we aren’t a couple?”
Ironically, the server chooses that exact moment to make an appearance, sidling up to the table with her tablet to take our order.
Steak, medium. Mushrooms.
Baked potato.
Yes, we’d love an appetizer. Yes, I’ll also have soup.
I don’t have to eat it all and obviously I’m going to want dessert—I’m on vacation after all, one I don’t have to pay for, and I intend to live it up.
Cautiously, I weigh the wisdom of my next few questions, knowing full well I could spoil the mood completely by asking them, more than I’ve already done tonight.
They’re too direct and too honest, but at least I’ll know.
“Were you quiet before because you were thinking about me?”
A pause as his beer glass freezes halfway to his lips. “Yes.”
I won’t lie to myself and pretend I didn’t already know that—I knew what he was going to say before the question left my mouth, but somehow hearing him admit it does something to my insides.
My pulse quickens.
“Do you…” I swallow nervously. Lick the wine from my lips. “Want to pretend for the weekend that I’m not just your friend?”
The longest, most silent hesitation I have ever had the misfortune to hear.
“Yes.”
Oh god.
“Do you…” I gulp, going for my wine glass. “Do you want to pretend for the weekend that I’m not your roommate?”
Ashley stares. Stares and stares, studying my face, eyes boring into me.
He nods slowly.
Deliberately.
I lean back, feeling buzzed.
Feeling…exuberant.
I’ve been living with this person for three weeks and I already have him figured out, already know what makes him tick. What drives him and motivates him and disgusts him.
Dishonesty. Lack of enthusiasm.
Laziness.
Ashley loves ambition and has it in spades.
He’s passionate and driven and aims to graduate on time, go back to Britain, and start working his ass off.
The only code I have not cracked is his personal life: if he wants to date, does he want to fall in love, does he want to have kids and his own family someday.
We haven’t discussed it.
“Now it’s my turn to ask you questions,” he tells me, chugging down the remaining inches of his Guinness, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, foam in the corner of his beautifully scarred mouth.
His lips are gorgeous, or maybe I’m tipsier than I thought.
Either way, they’re speaking to me and I have to focus and pay attention.
“Questions about what?”
He’s suppressing a sigh. “What you’re thinking about right now.”
�
��Fair enough.”
The server appears and takes our empty glasses. “Would you like me to bring you more of the same?”
We both nod and wait until she’s gone before speaking again.
“Go on.”
My roommate tilts his head. “If I hadn’t been able to come with you on this trip, would you have wanted to come?”
Whoa.
Whoa, whoa, WHOA.
He just threw down the gauntlet, didn’t he? Put it all out there for me to give him the truth and nothing but the truth with that one sentence, which doesn’t seem very telling but is.
One word—one yes or no—is going to sum it up for him better than anything else he could have thought of to ask.
I wait until the server sets our drinks down, watching her walk away before giving him a wide set of eyes.
It’s a wonder they haven’t bugged out of my skull as I sit here, trying to figure out how to respond.
No: I wanted it to be you and only you because I’ve been harboring a secret crush on you since the night I moved in.
Yes: I would have easily invited someone else along, one of my female friends, without a second thought.
He waits.
I stall.
Whatever I say next is going to change the course of this dinner, this night, this weekend, and our lives when we get back home. I’m about to make it better, or worse, or more awkward than it’s already been, and I have no actual way of knowing which of the three it’ll be until I open my mouth and say the word.
Yes.
Or no.
“No,” I murmur breathily. Because I don’t think I would’ve come on this trip without him; he is the person I had in mind when I was daydreaming about this vacation, and he’s the only person I would’ve wanted with me. Period.
Ashley doesn’t say a word, just reaches for his glass again and takes a healthy sip, watching me from above the rim. I can feel his gaze like I could feel his hand on the small of my back when we were walking through the restaurant to our table, the intense gaze filling my body with tingles the way a body should react when you’re insanely attracted to someone but too afraid to say something.
Nervous energy.
Electric energy.
Flirty, alive energy.
We are in the city that never sleeps, the city of sin, having a reckoning we should have had before I moved into his house and down the hall. If I had been honest with myself before this moment, maybe things would be different and he would be here as my date and not just as a friend.
