Page 65 of The Friend Situation

My question pulls Weston from his thoughts.

“What’s that?”

“Sex and friendship.”

“It depends,” he admits, trailing behind me, but just out of reach.

Once in the living room, Weston swipes his phone off the table, where he left it earlier. He types something, then sets it back down before meeting my eyes.

“The driver will arrive in fifteen minutes,” he says.

All of the want and need I felt upstairs still lingers between us.

I glance down at what I’m wearing, and a wave of self-consciousness washes over me. “Do you think it’s okay for me to leave like this?”

“It’s your call,” he replies, a smile spreading across his gorgeous face. “I wouldn’t unless you want to confirm rumors.”

I smile, sauntering toward the sliding door that leads to the balcony. The cool night air brushes against my skin as I step outside. He follows me.

“Tomorrow, I’ll pretend like this didn’t happen, just like last time you tried to make a move,” Weston confirms.

“Until you bring it up because you won’t be able to handle me never mentioning it.Just like last time,” I say, finding the scattered remnants of my evening—my dress and my sparkly shoes that twinkle like stars on the balcony floor. They’re both ice cold.

He watches me, and I love being under his gaze.

I turn to him. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“No,” Weston says, cocky as fuck. “I was your hall pass, Carlee. Yourfantasy. The one person on the planet you would fuck without remorse if you were in a committed relationship. That says a lot about where I’ve been inyourmind.”

“You know, I’m actually going to murder Lexi the next time I see her for sharing that with you. And you should know I replaced you because it’s supposed to be with someone out of reach, a highly unlikely reality.”

“And you don’t think I’m highly unlikely anymore?” he asks.

“You willalwaysbe out of my league, Weston. But we’re friends now, and that changes things,” I say, spilling truths like they’re overflowing as I walk inside.

“Ah,” he says, following me inside with his eyes fixated on me. “You think you’re not good enough for me?”

“Let’s not pretend we’re the same because, on many different levels, we’re not. You’re Weston Calloway,” I remind him. “Who am I?”

“A trusted confidant. One of my best friends,” he says.

In three small steps, he could have his mouth on mine as his hand trailed up my shirt, pinching one nipple, while his other hand slid inside my pants. But even in this fantasy, the friend zone exists, and the vision vanishes before my eyes. My subconsciousalwaysfights back when it comes to him.

He turns his head—a gentleman, never once daring to peek at my exposed skin as I change clothes. I carefully slip out of his rolled-up joggers with practiced ease and remove my panties. The Valentino dress is cold, but I deal with it.

I move forward and place my silk panties in the palm of his hand.

“A keepsake,” I whisper. “After a night we both have to forget.”

“Player,” he murmurs, amusement lacing his tone as his grasp tightens around the fabric.

“I just know the rules.”

He laughs, shaking his head.

A smirk dances on my lips. “Have fun pretending none of this happened the next time we’re together.”

“What happened? I don’t remember,” he says jokingly.

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