Page 55 of The Friend Situation

“Say something,” I whisper, tucking my lips into my mouth to hold back a smile.

He swallows, his throat working nervously. “Don’t youeverfucking say my name like that again.”

I burst into laughter, the sound bubbling out of me. “Maybe that’s the only way I’ll say your name from now on?Weston. Oh God,” I moan out, my voice echoing off the tall wall of his balcony.

I lean over and grab the bourbon bottle, needing a shot to cool the heat simmering inside me. I savor it as it slides down my throat, but it tastes like water. Not a good sign.

“You should be cut off,” he says, snatching the booze from my grasp.

I pout. “Oh, come on. You’renofun.” The Southern in me sayshelloas the bourbon loosens my tongue.

The glow of the pool light illuminates his handsome face. That chiseled jaw and scruff are what wet dreams are made from.

I know it’s getting late. When we’re together, time always seems to slip away.

“I have to work tomorrow,” I admit, hating how I always have to leave. “I should probably head home soon.”

He takes a deep breath, his expression turning serious.

“What if you quit?” he asks.

“I cannot just quit my job,” I insist, shaking my head. “We’ve both had too much to drink, and that’s not logical.”

“I’ll give you an allowance,” he offers.

“Like you’re my daddy?” I waggle my eyebrows. “What’s next? Grounding me if I misbehave? Spanking me?”

His brow arches. “You’re really fucking intense.”

Desire takes hold. “I’ve been told that before. By you, actually.”

He holds his phone in one hand and the bourbon in the other as he guides me inside. I stand in front of the fireplace and dry my body. He sways beside me, and I reach out to steady him. Somehow, we stumble and collapse on the couch, laughing.

I remind myself of the boundaries that threaten to pull us apart just as the attraction pulls us together.

“Have you ever thought that maybe whoever posted that blind item was trying to do you a favor and end this war between you and your ex?” I whisper, laying on his chest.

“That’s what my publicist believes,” he says and hiccups as he stares into my eyes.

“Oh my God. Is this the first time I’ve actually seen you drunk?” I can’t help but tease. “You’re usually more careful around me when I’m tipsy.”

“Shit,” he echoes, amusement dancing in his eyes. “We’re shit-faced.”

“Uh-oh,” I tell him, leaning my head back on the couch, creating space between us.

I shiver, and he notices.

Weston pulls a blanket from behind him and throws it over me. His fingers graze across my skin, causing goose bumps to race up my arm. We settle into a comfortable silence—the kind I only share with my closest friends—as we stare at the skyline.

I don’t know how much time passes.

“Are you still cold?” he asks as his gaze lands on me.

“A little,” I respond.

Without hesitation, he stands and taps a button. Instantly, the gas fireplace roars to life, flames dancing eagerly in their glazed glass enclosure. He returns to the couch, and this time, he’s even closer. I savor the warmth radiating from him as I rest my head on his chest.

“Your heart is racing,” I whisper. The thumps tug at my attention.

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