Twenty-One #3
Why is he here? She doesn’t buy for a second that he just doesn’t want her to be alone. Why not spend New Year’s Eve with his friends? Surely he has more important places to be, like a bumping nightclub or a sexy cocktail bar for rich people with low lights and sophisticated, important patrons.
Instead he’s lounging on her couch, sipping fifteen-dollar prosecco and flipping through the streaming options on her TV.
Either oblivious to her puzzled assessment of him or completely unbothered by it, he grins when she perches on the opposite end of the couch—the couch, she realizes with a swoop of her stomach that’s becoming all too familiar, where they completed the first experiment together.
Is he thinking about that?
Of course not. Because it didn’t mean anything.
“What are we thinking, Rogers? Bad reality TV or a movie?”
What is she thinking? So many things. Mostly how she wishes she weren’t affected by his mouth and fingers and general presence.
She tempers her racing thoughts, her burning emotions, and tries to relax against the couch cushions. “Bad reality TV sounds perfect.”
“I hoped you’d say that.” He flips to the show she and Sy have spent hours watching over the past two weeks.
“What?” he says at her look of surprise. “You think I don’t watch this? I’m embarrassed by how obsessed I am. The way they open up each season with everyone just making out with each other as a ‘Hello, nice to meet you’ is TV gold.”
“Sy and I watched the entire fifth season last week.”
“Shut up.” He laughs with unrestrained delight just as the oven timer goes off.
She makes to stand, but he presses a hand to her arm. “I got it. Cue up whatever season you want. I’ll get us more snacks and drinks. Can I use your restroom?”
She nods, watching him retreat to the kitchen, where he stops the timer and pulls out the spring rolls. A moment later, he reappears with another chocolate chip cookie in his mouth.
“You absolute goddess.” He moans in a way that is indecent. “These are so fucking good.”
Then he disappears into her bedroom with his backpack.
Sitting stiffly on her end of the couch, Charlie contemplates how bad of an idea the combination of alcohol, a reality dating show, and close proximity to Wes is going to be as the night progresses.
She tells herself she is in control. She excels at compartmentalizing. She is fine. He’s just a friend.
Who makes her come. Really hard.
And is not as arrogant or tactless as she convinced herself he was for all that time.
When he reappears a few minutes later, her heart stutters, and she can’t keep from doing a double take.
Not only because he has changed into those fucking gray joggers that should be illegal but because of the black-framed glasses covering his striking eyes.
He’s carrying the plate of spring rolls in one hand and the bottle of champagne in the other, and he sets both items on the coffee table.
She can’t decide if she wants to jump him or hit him when he lifts a brow, his mouth quirking like he knows the exact reason she’s staring.
“More prosecco, Rogers?” He hovers the bottle over her glass.
“You wear glasses?” she says in lieu of an answer, then immediately regrets it.
“Usually contacts, but my eyes get dry if I wear them all day. Now you get to witness me in all my nighttime glory.” He winks, doing nothing to settle whatever is happening inside her.
It is cruel how devastating he looks.
Suppressing her internal scream, she gestures to her glass before plucking a spring roll off the plate and shoving half of it in her mouth. He takes one for himself and settles back on the couch.
The episode starts, the camera panning over the familiar villa, the narrator with the thick British accent discussing that season’s new contestants.
“Hey,” Wes says.
She looks at him. “What?”
He smiles. “Don’t try to kiss me at midnight. No matter how much you want to.”
She manages an incredulous scoff, her insides turning into a puddle of swirling goo, and she makes a show of creating a barrier of throw pillows between them.
“There.” She smacks the pillow mound with her palm. “Your virtue is safe. I will control my amorous urges when the ball drops and midnight transforms you into the most irresistible man I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
He throws his head back and laughs, and she’s certain she’s never heard a more beautiful sound.
“Good. Keep your feminine wiles to yourself.”
She sips her prosecco while they comment on the strength of the couples, the generated drama that makes the show so engrossing.
They agree on pizza rolls after finishing the spring rolls, and when he’s done heating them, he shifts on the couch so that he’s leaning against her barrier, and she warns him away.
He tosses a pizza roll at her head that she promptly pops in her mouth after retrieving it from the floor.
An hour before midnight, her lids grow heavy, and she rests her head on the barrier, telling herself she’s just resting her eyes.
The voices from the show fade into indecipherable murmurs, and she thinks she feels something brush through her hair, a light touch to her temple, but she can’t be sure before she doesn’t think anything at all.