Page 50 of The Friend Situation

I glance at him, not able to hide my smile. I could wrap my arm around his neck and taste him. Would he kiss me back?

“Don’t start shit,” he says, almost as if he can read my mind.

“Not sure what you’re talking about,” I mutter, wondering if my wants are written all over my face.

“Oh, keep playing innocent. I find it endearing as fuck.” He presses his thumb onto the pad, and the main door opens.

I enter first, and I’m filled with anticipation as I walk farther inside. The glow of the city lights spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm halo over the space. A shiny white grand piano stands as the centerpiece, offering a stunning view of the park, covered in a blanket of snow.

“Do you play?” I ask, picturing his fingers dancing over the keys while taking in this breathtaking scenery.

“Not anymore,” he replies, turning on the overhead light that floods the room with a cozy warmth.

Despite its size—two stories high, wrapped in glass, with an expansive view—the place feels lived in.

Mail is sprawled casually across the bar, and the pillows on the couch aren’t aligned. There’s a lingering scent of him, almost like cedar. It’s familiar and comforting.

I step closer to the piano and trace my fingers along the cool, polished keys. The silence breaks as a playful sound fills the air. I lean over, plucking out the opening notes of “Heart and Soul.” The melody is bright and nostalgic as I use my two pointer fingers.

“It’s fromBigwith Tom Hanks. Ever watch it?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

I can sense him pulling inward as he lights the gigantic fireplace. The flame catches and burns bright as it licks up the side of the glass. He holds his hands out in front of it, then glances at me.

“What’s on your mind?” Curiosity meets his tone.

I grow quiet, a giveaway that I’m in my head, swimming with my thoughts—something I do a lot.

“Tonight, I realized there are a lot of things I don’t know about you,” I say, moving to the edge of vulnerability.

“How is that possible? You’re aWestoncyclopedia,” he says, smirking.

“Not yet,” I admit, watching him watch me. I see an expression I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before. I can’t read him. “What’s on your mind?”

“I had the urge to paint again,” he says, almost confused.

My mouth falls open. “You paint?”

“I stopped four years ago, when I stopped playing piano. But I think you’ve inspired me.” A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “You’re fucking gorgeous.Wow.”

“Weston,” I whisper.

“I won’t hold that back for your comfort.” The confidence in his eyes is mesmerizing. “If you’re told, maybe you’ll start believing it.”

My willpower crumbles as our eyes meet.

“What are your plans for next Friday?” he asks, changing the subject.

He sheds his suit jacket, tossing it casually on the back of a stool. I can’t help but notice the rich blue silk lining that echoes the color of his eyes—the same color in the jewelry boxes. The dark gray vest and tight button-up shirt hug his body. He carefully removes his cuff links, placing them next to the mail, and loosens his tie. His biceps flex as he removes his accessories. It’s casual yet somehow intimate.

“Already back to eye-fucking me.” He chuckles, breaking the spell. “Didn’t take long.”

“Blame the suit,” I reply, my heart racing as I try to convince myself it’s just his clothes that captivate me. I clear my throat as the weight of anticipation floats in the air.

“About Friday, I’m going on a date,” I offer.

He nods. “You are?”

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