Page 40 of The Friend Situation

Questions swirl in my mind like autumn leaves caught in a sudden gust, and I brace myself for the answer.

Naomi Accetta is the prime minister of Italy, hailing from an influential family steeped in history and power. Her intelligence is evident. Her sharp features and commanding presence have allowed herto carve a path for her future. She is a woman who knows her worth and has worked diligently to earn her place in a traditionally male-dominated arena, having studied at prestigious universities.

On paper, they seem to be a match—his charm complementing her influence, their careers aligning in the public eye. Based on the candid photos captured as they exited the car together, the chemistry crackles between them. It’s electric, but then again, Weston looks good with anyone who’s next to him.

What if she’s his secret girlfriend?

Why does the thought make my stomach turn?

With effortless grace, Weston pulls Naomi’s chair out for her—a subtle yet intimate gesture—before taking his seat. I don’t even have to turn my head to watch. I just flick my eyes upward, heart racing at the sight. When his gaze meets hers, a kind smile curves his lips. A pang of jealousy stabs at my heart. I wrestle with the feeling, trying to grasp why I’m experiencing this turmoil. After all, we are just friends—nothing more, nothing less.

Witnessing this is a different experience than reading about it online. Seeing him on a date makes itreal, more tangible than any late-night conversations we’ve exchanged.

I shove my emotions aside, forcing myself to focus on the interaction unfolding before me. His eyes dart past Naomi, and suddenly, they lock on to mine with an intensity that makes my breath hitch in my throat. A small smirk plays on his lips, and a wave of heat washes over me, coursing through my veins like fire. I force myself to look away, the weight of our connection too suffocating to bear.

When I glance back, I catch him leaning in close to Naomi, whispering something that prompts her to laugh. It’s light and flirty, the kind that dances through the air and lingers. She leans closer, as if pulled in by an invisible thread. I think they might kiss, but Weston pulls away first, revealing careful control over the evening. It feels almost out of character from his flirty demeanor.

The way she eyes him with adoration makes it clear she wants him. She’s eye-fucking him and giving all the hints.

Yet the chemistry between them isn’t reciprocated; Weston is clearly holding back.

Did he notice a similar restraint in me with Trever?Probably.

I take a sip of my drink, and jealousy brews within me. I try to steady my breathing as her finger brushes against his, a casual touch with fire behind it.

The server returns, and I realize I haven’t looked at the menu. I’m grateful for the interruption; I wasn’t fully aware of just how difficult it would be to witness this.

Now I’m confused. I cannot have feelings for Weston. Absolutely not.

“Have you decided what you’d like for dinner?” the server asks, a friendly smile gracing her lips.

“I think I’d like the Wagyu. Medium rare,” I reply, forcing calmness into my voice.

She beams back at me. “And your sides?”

“Surprise me,” I tell her, grinning.

“Easiest customer all night.” She laughs, and it mingles with the classical music floating through the air.

“Can you just keep the martinis coming? And wait to put my food in for, like, twenty minutes?” I ask, knowing Weston and Naomi haven’t placed their orders yet. I don’t know why I feel like I might melt into a puddle of envy.

“Absolutely,” she replies, and I can’t help but wonder if she knows I’m with Weston.

The gin makes my head swirl, and I try to regain some composure.

Weston sips his drink and engages in a serious conversation with Naomi. Her fingertips lightly brush against his cheek—a gesture both tender and intimate—and he mutters something I can’t hear. She nods attentively, her expression warm and inviting.

The server reappears, and Weston hands over his card.

They’re skipping dinner. He’s already taking her home.

He pulls her chair out for her, and they exchange a very G-rated hug, which confuses me. There’s an innocent warmth in their embrace, unlike anything I’ve witnessed with Weston before. It’s the kind of hug that feels purely platonic, yet there’s something about the way they linger that stirs a knot of unease inside me.

Weston leads her down the long, elegant hallway, floating under the oversize chandeliers that cast a golden glow, illuminating their path, as if guiding them toward something more.

Then he’s out of sight. I feel deflated.

Five minutes later, he slides into the booth beside me, the wood creaking under his weight. He checks his watch before turning to me with a blend of concern and confusion.

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