Page 50 of Quarantine Crush
Okay, so she wasn’t technically wearing it around the house, but when she walked out of the bedroom in the barely-there bikini, I thought I was going to have an aneurism. My control had almost broken as I watched her sunbathe on her balcony. Watching the sun’s rays dancing along her skin in ways I could only dream of had me rising from where I was pretending to work. I’d almost lost my shit when some guy across the street started catcalling her from his own balcony. That asshole has social distancing laws to thank for his continued survival. Thankfully, he’d creeped Emy out enough that she’d given up the pretense and come back inside. Content to torture me and me alone. Hell, even her ridiculous unicorn costume had brought its own special brand of pain. When she’d peeled off the inflatable costume to reveal her toned body, glistening with sweat, I’d had to excuse myself to the bathroom.
And now, as if avoiding her siren call for the last few days wasn’t hard enough, she’s on a date with another guy while I sit here in the other room like a third damn wheel.
That dress. . .
The sole reason I haven’t throat-punched Reed for this is because he doesn’t get to actually see her in it–because seeing her in dim lighting over a spotty Facetime call doesn’t count. It’s nothing like the punch to the lungs of seeing it in person. More importantly, he doesn’t get to touch her.
If this date wasn’t distanced, I’d have to break his fingers to keep them off her.
The thought is extreme and admittedly a little crazy, so I try to shake it off, but I can’t clear my head. Not when she’s sitting just out of reach and looking like my every wet dream come to life.
For someone else.
She chose to look like that forhim.
And just like that, I’m back to imagining Reed’s fingers snapping like, well, reeds.
Get your shit together, Jacobs.
“Thanks, you look great too.”
Emy’s voice rings out, a little muted through the glass balcony door, but I cringe anyway.
“Oh, that’s so sweet,” she says, and while I can’t hear Reed’s voice through their Facetime, that’s probably for the best. I shouldn’t be listening to any of it. But try as I might, I can’t make myself get up from the bar where I’m pretending to be engrossed in the email I’m staring at while I feign working.
It’s not like I have anywhere else to go. There’s no escaping the shitshow in this tiny apartment.
A second later, the door opens, and Emy walks inside. I don’t look over. Not because I don’t want another full-length glimpse of her in that dress. But because I do.
“Here.”
I look over as she sets one of the covered plates on the counter beside me.
“What’s this?” I ask, halfway glancing up. Which is a big mistake since it gives me a clear view of her cleavage. Cleavage that’s barely wrapped in a silky nighty masquerading as a dress.
Fuck me.
“Reed sent dinner for you too since he knew you were here. This plate’s yours.”
Her voice is polite but devoid of any real warmth. I want to look up at her. To apologize. To get back the old Emy who would have called me out about my sour-ass mood this past week. But the fact that Reed made me dinner only makes me hate him more. Because it’s a good move. And Emy will love him for it.
So, instead, I scowl and go back to pretending to read my email. “Thanks,” I grunt, hating myself a little bit for the dick response.
But it’s all I’ve got.
Emy hesitates then says, “You’re welcome to hang in my room so you can have some privacy.”
I don’t answer.
Emy lets out a small huff of annoyance and grabs an empty wine glass and the bottle Reed sent up, stalking back to the balcony without another word.
I sit on the stool and contemplate how big of a douche I’ve become.
“Sure, I’ll toast to that,” I hear from outside. There’s a pause, and then she laughs. “Your memory is selective. I remember it much differently than that.”
So theydohave history. Fucking great.
“You weren’t a mess,” she protests. “I thought all that flour was cute.”
