Chapter 7 #2
Anne gasps and covers her mouth with her hand, scandalized. Tim’s eyes dart toward Brooke’s legs for half a second before he catches himself and stares intensely at the centerpiece like the flower arrangement is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.
Brooke throws her head back and laughs, and dammit if Marjorie isn’t right. It’s hard not to notice Brooke’s very toned legs when her dress has a slit that goes up to mid-thigh, a thigh that’s about to be right next to me for the entire dinner.
She pulls out the chair beside mine and sits, and now her leg is right there. Inches away. Tan and toned and on full display, and I focus on the stage like my life depends on it.
“Marjorie, you’re too much,” Brooke says, still smiling as she settles in and crosses her legs, which somehow makes it worse.
“I’m just enough, sweetheart. Ask anyone.
” Marjorie takes a sip of her wine and winks at Brooke before turning to Anne, who still looks like she’s recovering from the indecent exposure comment.
“Oh, come now, Anne, don’t be such a prude.
We’re all adults here. Well, most of us.
” She shoots a look at Tim, who’s still pretending the centerpiece holds the secrets of the universe.
Brooke presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. “I’ve missed you, Marjorie.”
“Of course you have. New York doesn’t have anyone like me.”
“New York definitely doesn’t have anyone like you.”
I reach for my bourbon at the same moment Brooke reaches for her wine glass. Our hands almost collide over the table and we both pull back like we’ve touched a hot stove.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, not looking at me.
“You’re fine,” I mutter back, also not looking at her.
Marjorie’s eyes ping-pong between us with obvious interest, but mercifully she doesn’t comment.
The salads arrive, and I eat mine without tasting it.
I’m too aware of Brooke beside me. Every shift of her body.
Every breath she takes. The way she crosses and uncrosses her legs, making that fucking slit open and close like it’s taunting me specifically.
The way she tucks her hair behind her ear and I catch a glimpse of her neck, the soft skin just below her jaw, and I remember exactly what that skin tastes like.
Her knee shifts under the table and brushes mine. She angles away immediately, but not before I feel the contact through my slacks, a point of heat that lingers longer than it should. The six inches between us might as well be the DMZ.
“Dominic! Brooke! Holy shit!”
The voice comes from behind me, loud and sloppy, and I turn to see Tommy Callahan weaving between tables with a drink in each hand and a grin on his face that’s at least four drinks wide.
Tommy went to high school with us, ran with the football crowd, and has apparently not changed one bit in the intervening decades.
He reaches our table and slaps his free hand down on the surface hard enough to rattle the silverware. “Look at you two. Brooke Bennett and Dominic Midnight, sitting at the same table. Somebody call the fire department.” He laughs at his own joke, loud and braying.
“Oh, hey Tommy,” Brooke says, her smile polite but tight around the edges. “You’re looking... well.”
Generous of her.
“Oh, you too, Brooke. You too.” He gives her a look that lingers way too long, his eyes sliding down to her chest and her legs like he’s got every right to look.
Something ugly twists in my gut and my hands curl into fists under the table. Which is insane since I have no reason to be angry on her behalf, but I still want to break Tommy’s fucking nose.
He pivots to address the rest of the table like he’s hosting a talk show.
“You guys have no idea. These two were legendary back in the day. The fights they used to have. The whole school would stop to watch.” He shakes his head, grinning.
“Remember that time outside the principal’s office?
I thought you two were going to literally kill each other. Half the senior class was taking bets.”
The table has gone very quiet. Tim is back to studying the centerpiece. Anne is looking at her salad like it might save her. Even Marjorie has nothing to say.
“Good times,” Tommy announces to no one in particular. “Good times, good times.” He straightens up and points at the room at large. “Well, I gotta make the rounds, but I’m coming back to catch up with you two later. We should get a drink, talk about the old days.”
Great. Something to look forward to.
He claps me on the shoulder hard enough to slosh his drink, then stumbles off, presumably to terrorize someone else.
Silence settles over the table and Brooke lifts her wine glass and takes a long sip, her composure flawless. But I can see the tension in her, and I know the feeling.
“Well,” Marjorie says finally, looking between us. “That was something.”
“Tommy’s always been a lot,” Brooke says smoothly, setting down her glass.
“Mm-hmm.” Marjorie’s eyebrows say she’s filing this away for later. “And you two were legendary, huh?”
“Ancient history,” I say flatly.
“Very ancient,” Brooke agrees.
We glance at each other. It lasts maybe a second, maybe less, but it’s enough. Her eyes are dark and unreadable and I push back from the table.
“I’ve got a demonstration to set up,” I say. “If you’ll excuse me.”
I don’t look at Brooke as I stand, but I feel her eyes on my back the whole way.
And I hate how much I like it.