2. The Welcome Dinner #3
"You're not as cold as you pretend to be," Becca said.
"I'm not pretending."
"You are, though." Becca stopped just inside Margot's space, close enough to smell her perfume, something subtle and expensive that had been tormenting Becca all evening. "The toast you gave. That was real. The way you looked at Sophie. The way you're looking at me right now."
She was close now. Close enough to see the slight dilation of Margot's pupils, the tension in her jaw, her chest rising and falling a little faster than normal.
"Becca—" Margot's voice came out rougher than usual. A warning, maybe. Or a plea.
"I'm just saying." Becca reached out, touched Margot's arm. Just lightly, just her fingertips against the silk of Margot's sleeve. Margot's muscle tensed beneath the fabric. "You don't have to be a wall all the time. Walls get lonely."
Margot went very still. Not pulling away, not leaning in. Just frozen, like she was fighting some internal battle Becca couldn't see.
The air between them changed. Thickened.
Margot's attention shifted, sharpened, focused entirely on the place where Becca's fingers rested against her arm.
The touch was barely anything, just a whisper of contact, but it felt electric.
Charged with something that had been building since the moment they'd met.
Becca let her fingers trail upward, across Margot's shoulder, along the curve of her neck, coming to rest against the soft skin just below her ear. Margot shivered. Her eyes fluttered half-closed.
"What are you doing?" Margot whispered.
"I don't know." Becca's own voice was barely audible. "But I don't want to stop."
Margot's gaze dropped to Becca's mouth. Lingered there. Margot swallowed. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. The want in her expression was unmistakable, naked and raw and utterly at odds with the defenses she'd been maintaining all evening.
Becca leaned in. Just slightly. Just enough to feel Margot's breath against her lips.
And Margot almost met her. For one breath, two, Becca felt her lean forward.
Felt the pull between them like gravity.
Their noses brushed. Margot's hand came up, not to push her away, but to rest against Becca's hip, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress.
The touch sent heat spiraling through Becca's entire body.
They hovered there, mouths a fraction of an inch apart. Warmth radiated off Margot. Wine on her breath. The rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat. One of them just had to close the distance. One tiny movement and…
Then Margot stepped back.
The absence hit like a slap. Becca's eyes flew open. She hadn't even noticed she'd closed them. Margot was retreating toward the bathroom, arms wrapped around herself like she was holding something in.
"I'm going to shower." Her voice was clipped, controlled, but Becca could hear the tremor underneath. "We should sleep. Tomorrow's busy."
The bathroom door closed. The lock clicked.
Becca stood alone in the cottage, heart hammering against her ribs, hand still raised in the space where Margot had been. Her lips tingled with the ghost of a kiss that hadn't happened. Her whole body thrummed with unfulfilled want.
What the hell was that?
She pressed her palm to her chest, feeling her pulse race. Her skin was flushed, her breathing unsteady. She'd been so close. They'd been so close. Another second and she would have known what Margot tasted like.
This was not the plan. The plan was to survive the weekend, celebrate Sophie's wedding, and not develop any inconvenient attractions to women who compared love to corporate mergers.
The plan definitely did not include almost-kissing her roommate and then standing in the middle of the cottage, trembling with desire, while said roommate hid in the bathroom.
The shower turned on. Becca imagined Margot standing under the water, trying to cool down, trying to pretend that moment hadn't happened. Was she thinking about it too? Was her pulse still racing? Was she pressing her fingers to her lips, wondering what it would have felt like?
Stop it, Becca told herself. She pulled away. She doesn't want this.
But the hand on her hip had said otherwise. The way Margot had leaned in, eyes dark with want. That had said otherwise too.
Becca changed into her pajamas: shorts and an oversized t-shirt with a cartoon croissant on it.
She got into bed. The right side. Margot had claimed the left, closer to the outlet, of course, which left Becca staring at the ceiling, pretending to be asleep instead of thinking about the way Margot's eyes had darkened when Becca touched her arm.
Twenty minutes later, Margot emerged in silk pajamas, because of course she wore silk pajamas, and got into bed without a word.
They lay there in the darkness, inches apart, neither touching.
"Goodnight," Becca whispered.
"Goodnight."
The silence stretched. Margot's breathing was soft and slow. Her warmth lingered just beyond reach.
She stayed on the very edge of her side of the mattress and did not sleep for a very long time.