Chapter 4 #3
“Try to keep up,” I say as I spin us toward the center of the dance floor.
Sierra doesn’t say anything, and keeps her head tilted down.
It’s hard to know what she’s looking at—that hollow area where my neck meets my chest, which is visible because I’ve unbuttoned the top button of my dress shirt and unloosened the tie, maybe?
—or if she’s just trying to avoid looking at me.
Finally, she glances up at me, rearranges her features into a mask of disapproval, then asks, “Why did you come talk to me the other night? At the bar?”
“You sat down next to me. It would have been rude to ignore you.” I wonder at what point I should worry about how easily these lies come to me? I definitely sat down next to her when her attention was focused down at the other end of the bar.
“But why did you flirt with me?” she asks, her voice a little small for my liking. She should be far more confident, and if this has something to do with that asshole Peter, then I’ll castrate him. Men who go around breaking down women’s self-esteem are the lowest form of asshole.
“What makes you think I was flirting?” I ask, but I give her enough of a smile that she knows I’m teasing. Or I think she does, anyway. “Did you look into the figs?”
She nods.
“And?” I prompt.
“And it’s all a bit ambiguous. I think maybe you were exaggerating a little.” She glances up at me again—her eyes travel across my chin, linger on my lips, glide up my nose, and finally meet my eyes.
“I think you need to do more research.” I wink, then I spin her away from me before pulling her back against my body.
“You mentioned setting some roommate ground rules the other night—”
“Before you ran away?” I interrupt.
She shakes her head, then continues. “What would be on your list of ground rules?”
I pause for a minute, thinking. “Honestly, this is a three week living arrangement. Maybe less if you find an apartment sooner, right? So I think we can just agree not to be assholes to each other and call that our roommate agreement.”
“I feel like maybe we need a bit more in the way of . . . parameters,” she says, her eyebrows dipping down until they almost touch her long lashes.
I open my mouth to respond, but then Petra is there, literally pulling us apart. She grasps each of our hands in one of hers and pulls us to the center of the dance floor. “Come on,” she yells over the music, “it’s almost midnight!”
Waiters are descending on the room with trays of champagne flutes and someone hands one to each of us as we approach Jackson and Nate, who are staring into each other’s eyes like they can’t wait to get back to their room.
The thought has a chill running down my spine, because, ew, that shit’s not cool when it’s your sister.
“Hey,” I say, handing my glass to Sierra. “Could you hold this for a second?”
She takes the glass and I slip my camera out of my pocket. It’s small but powerful, and it’s the one I have on me at all times. I snap a few pictures of the newlyweds, then check the LCD panel to make sure they came out okay. They are better than okay.
“I hate you so much right now.” Sierra’s lips are so close to my ear that I can feel her warm breath across my cheek, and a shiver of longing unexpectedly travels down my spine.
“Why’s that?” I ask, not daring to turn my head. If I did, I couldn’t be held responsible for my actions, or hers.
“Because Jackson made me promise that I wouldn’t take any pictures tonight, insisted that I enjoy the night and not think about running her social media accounts. And you just captured some amazing shots that should have been mine. You even have my camera.”
“You mean you have my camera,” I say, glancing at her from where she stands next to me with her face resting against my bicep as she glances down at the LCD screen in my hands.
“Will you get some shots of them right at the New Year?” she asks.
“Obviously.” I slide the camera back in my pocket so I can take my champagne flute from her.
“And will you send them to me so that I can post them for her tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I say, reaching into my other pocket for my phone. “Give me your number and I’ll text them to you later on.”
She finishes putting her number into my phone right as the DJ announces the countdown. Everyone’s screaming out the numbers, but I’m fumbling to get my phone back in one pocket, hand my glass to Sierra, and get my camera out of the other pocket in time.
“Four . . . three . . .” I start snapping photos nonstop, hoping that the low light and movement don’t result in blurry photos. There’s only so much I can do with limited time to prevent that, so I focus in on Jackson and Nate, trying to get them crystal clear. “Two . . . one!”
I snap a couple more photos, then Sierra leans in to look. “You get them?”
“Of course I did,” I say, and I don’t care if I have to stay up half the night editing them until they’re perfect, I will be sending her flawless pictures in the morning.
Then I turn the camera around in my hand, pull her in with my other arm, point the camera at us, and whisper, “Smile.”
That one is just for me.