Chapter 11
SYLAS
Once we’re done with our first pitcher, it gets replaced with another—the liquid green this time.
“‘The Grinch,’” the server calls it.
“I have to tell you something.” Anna scoots closer to me, and her bare thigh brushes against mine. My breath gets caught when she props her hand on it and her nails dig in like she’s trying to steady herself. “Don’t judge me, and you can’t laugh.”
Inhaling sharply, I draw my attention from her hand to her face. Her lips are partially red from the drink, her whiskey eyes are glossed and faintly dazed, and her face is a pretty array of colors thanks to the lights in this place.
My lips lazily rise. “Tell me.” I lean in, breathing her in. “I promise I won’t judge or laugh.”
She draws in closer, fingers curling in and out, faintly scratching my thigh. “I’m a little—no, maybe a lot buzzed and I really shouldn’t drink any more, but I don’t want to stop.”
I can’t help laughing.
Anna attempts a glare, but she looks too happy for it to have the intended effect. “You said you wouldn’t laugh.”
My head feels light, face feels warm, and body pulses with bliss, everything around me moving slowly but erratic. “I know. I think I’m buzzed, too.”
“There was a lot of tequila in that last one.” She licks her lips as if she were trying to taste the drink.
I nod, eyes lasered in on her tongue and how she drags it back and forth. “Too…much.”
“But I still want more.” She picks up the pitcher and pours green liquid into her cup. “Is that okay with you, or are you ready to go?”
This is when I’m supposed to cut us off and take her home. We’ve already eaten and I got to spend time with her, but I don’t want the night to end.
I slide my glass next to hers. “It’s more than okay with me. Plus, they’ve already brought this over. We shouldn’t waste it.”
“No, we shouldn’t, should we?” She fills my cup, almost spilling some of the liquid as she does. When she sets the pitcher down, she raises her glass and waits for me to do the same.
I do, and ask, “What are we toasting to now?”
She spins in her chair, her crossed legs resting against the inside of my knee. I swallow thickly, thinking of this moment and not the memory of what she felt like when I made her come.
“Everything.” She beams.
I’m not sure she notices but she’s rubbing her leg against mine. And if she does, she’s doing nothing to stop.
“To everything.” I’m sure I’m mirroring the same dopey, elated look she’s wearing.
We clink our cups against each other and drink. “Vodka.” She hums in delight. “This is good.”
“Really good.” I take a long drink, welcoming the alcohol as it rushes through my veins and numbs the pulsing until I feel like I’m floating. I stretch my arm over the back of her chair. I don’t mean to, but my fingers graze her back. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Her eyes descend to my lips briefly before they lift. “I like them there.”
“Yeah?” The word sounds rough to my own ears.
“Yeah.” Her body softens as I circle the pads of my fingers along her soft skin. “Tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
I continue gliding my fingers along her shoulder blade, reveling in the way goose bumps break out and she shudders. “I don’t know…your accent? Your mom is Brazilian, your dad British. Were you born in the UK?”
I chuckle at the randomness but then sit up, aware she’s admitting to knowing about my parents when she claimed not to have a clue. “I thought you didn’t know my family?”
“We were hired by them so I kind of did, I just never paid attention. I’m there to do my job. But my roommate, Jenny, did some research. She didn’t want me going out with a weirdo.” She shudders again and takes a sip of her drink. I make the mistake of looking down when she squeezes her thighs.
Stop touching her, I think, but I can’t physically do that.
“I’m glad she didn’t think I was a weirdo. I would’ve hated missing out on seeing you wear this dress.”
Her cheeks darken. “Oh no, you’re still a weirdo, but I guess you’re cool or whatever.”
I softly pinch her. “Or whatever?”
“Or whatever,” she repeats, voice louder and sultrier. “Come on, tell me about you.”
I tell myself to breathe when she rests her free palm on my thigh again.
“I was born in New York, but Dad wanted me to be acquainted with his hometown and family in the UK, so I spent a lot of my childhood there. I guess without realizing it, I picked up the accent and it’s stuck ever since.
It’s not as heavy as Dad’s, but it’s there. ”
“Mmm…” She hums. “It’s hot.”
My brows lift, my heart pumping in my ears. “Hot?”
Her blink is slow and expression delayed, as if she’s realized what she said. “I could backtrack, but you know what? I won’t. I’m sure you hear that a lot, huh?”
I shrug, feigning innocence. A few years ago—I’m embarrassed to admit this—I’d have eaten up the attention. Now it’s whatever, but hearing Anna say that? I’ll speak for the praise alone.
She rolls her eyes but smiles big and dopey. “So, how fluent are you in Spanish?”
“Very. I also speak Portuguese. And I can semi understand and speak French and Italian.”
“Wow, little Mr. Overachiever,” she muses, her tone playfully patronizing.
“My parents are huge overachievers.” I gently pinch her again. “And I’m far from little.”
The corner of her lips curve upward into a haughty smirk, then dull into a coy one. “I’m sorry.”
My hand freezes on her back. “What are you sorry for?”
“For assuming…”
“Assuming what?” I resume drawing random designs, touching her back everywhere I’m able to.
“That you were going to sacrifice my body or something. Jenny’s right, I watch too much TV, but in my defense, rich people do weird things.”
My hand halts as I bring my glass to my lips, head tipping back as a laugh bubbles free. I’m not sure what I thought she was going to say, but that wasn’t it.
“We usually do that on Tuesdays. You got lucky.”
Her lips part. “I got lucky?”
I play into it. “Yeah. Tuesdays are for rituals, followed by the sacrifice. If we wait until the weekend, someone could catch on to it.” I take a drink. “As they say, never let them know your next move.”
Her lips flatten in what looks like an attempt to smother a laugh, but she’s hardly successful. “But today’s Friday the thirteenth. Wouldn’t today have been the perfect day to complete said ritual?”
I shrug. “It’s December. We’re feeling the Christmas spirit or whatever.”
Anna laughs this time. “Or whatever?”
“Or whatever,” I reiterate, keeping my lips in a straight line to look stoic, but she makes it hard.
She takes a long drink. “Well, thanks for not sacrificing me. It wouldn’t have been good for my business.”
I follow suit, gulping down half of my glass. “You have a business?”
Her face gleams—no, her entire being glows with an exuberant joy. She’s inebriated, but I’m positive my buzz has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with being in her presence.
“Yeah, I sell baked goods. Anything and everything.” She emphasizes that word and now I understand what she meant when she cheersed to everything.
“Sometimes I take requests, bake things I never have before. I also accommodate all dietary restrictions. I charge half the price, which isn’t great for my wallet, but it gives me a chance to get experience.
And if my customers are happy, they spread the word. ”
“Why half?” I prop my elbow on the table, laying my chin on it, absorbing her expressions and the glint in her eyes.
“Because it’s easier to convince someone to give me a chance. There’re so many bakeries and shops in New York; anyone could simply get their baked goods in those stores. Some are cheaper or just more convenient.”
She’s not wrong. Everywhere you turn, there’s a shop advertising croissants or donuts or whatnot. New York is a competitive city; you either have to step it up or move somewhere else where it’s not as busy.
“Consider me persuaded.”
Anna’s eyes grow wide, and she sits up straight. “What?”
“Bake me something, but charge full price.”
“Really? What do you want me to bake? Do you have any allergies? Any preferences?” She rapidly fires her questions at me. Some of her words are a bit slurred, and giggles trickle out of her mouth freely. “I can bake just about everything.”
“Yes, really.” I pluck a loose tendril from her bun and twine it around my finger. “I don’t have allergies and I’m not picky, so surprise me.”
Her eyes bounce left and right in thought, then the brightest smile lifts on her face and she nods. “I know what I’m going to bake for you. When do you want it?”
“Whenever you can make it.”
“Okay.” She beams, drinks what’s left in her glass, and pours more of the drink into it and mine. “I’d make it tonight, but I definitely shouldn’t be around an oven. Or a kitchen, for that matter. Also, no scissors. Make sure none are around me.”
I chuckle. “That’s super specific. Why no scissors?”
“Because I’ll end up cutting my hair or trimming my bangs and I’m seriously trying to grow them out.”
I brush my fingers across them, careful not to mess them up. “I’m not to be trusted with my credit card when I’m drunk. I’ll end up buying stupid shit and have no recollection of it. Or I’ll be enticed to do something idiotic, like letting my friends convince me to get a random tattoo.”
She sips her drink, eyes drifting to me over the rim. “What did you get and where?”
“Those jellyfish from SpongeBob? They’re on my pec.” I roll my eyes, remembering waking up to my chest feeling sore. I point to where it’s located over my shirt.
“You have to show me.” She reaches for my hand and swats it away.
“I’ll show you…” I lay my hand over hers, flattening it on my chest. “But you’ll have to get a tattoo with me.”
She incredulously stares at me, brows furrowing. “Like right now?”
“Right now.” My heart thrashes at our proximity, beating far faster and harder than before. If she can feel it, she doesn’t comment.
“What would we get and where? It’s late and—”
“This is New York. Something will be open,” I coax.
It’s such a rash thing to request, but I’m partially drunk, and being this close to her isn’t helping me think clearly.
She squeezes her eyes tight before popping them back open.
“Okay, I’ll get one with you, but when you get married, you can’t tell your wife you got a tattoo with a girl you met at a club and gave an orgasm to.
I don’t want to be sacrificed in the future.
I have so much to live for, and Jenny wouldn’t forgive you. She’d hunt you down.”
I laugh at her ridiculousness but go along with it anyway. “She’d hunt me down? Wouldn’t your husband do that? Wait, I shouldn’t assume—do you want to get married?”
My brain is fuzzy, but I remember her telling me she’s not interested in relationships.
Dropping my hand, I lean back in my chair and take a drink.
“I do…Not sure when, but I guess I’ll know when I know.” Her eyes lock with mine. They’re a dark forest, enchanting and absorbing. They call to me and I lithely follow. I’m in deep, stuck in a reverie I never want to end.
God, she’s beautiful.
I bark a laugh and then she does too. The alcohol has my brain glitching and spazzing out. I don’t know what’s going on, but I love how I feel and like who I’m next to. I rest my hand on the back of her chair once more, my fingers idly drifting over her exposed skin.
What were we talking about? Tattoos. Right, we’re getting tattoos. That’s wild. Am I sure I want to do this? I sweep my gaze over her and feel so sure I drain my cup, wanting to quickly finish this pitcher so we can leave.
“What are we going to get?” she says, and I think it over, but nothing comes to mind, although my brain isn’t where it should be.
It’s fixated on how she feels, how beautiful she looks in this dress, how her lips are a mix of green and red from the drink.
She keeps licking them and I keep wishing it were me doing that.
“I think I have an idea.”