A few hours ago, Eric wanted to kiss Mina almost as much as Tiffany. Now, as he sipped a beer in his kitchen while he waited for Tiffany to arrive, he was thinking that he should have muzzled her. Because right now, his nerves were definitely jumping.

That was the thing about Tiffany—somehow, someway, she always knocked him off balance.

As a general rule, Eric didn’t get nervous around women. Considering how much his tips improved when he flirted, a case of nerves would be pretty inconvenient. And even when there was a real attraction, he’d never felt as topsy-turvy as he did around Tiffany.

Jill, for example. They’d met in the produce section of HEB last September, flirted casually, and Jill had asked if he wanted to meet for coffee. One thing had led to another, and before he knew it, they were dating.

There’d been sparks—in bed at least—and that’s probably why he let it go on so long. But even with sparks there wasn’t any real heat. And every time she’d left him to go home or to work, she tended to leave his thoughts as well.

Tiffany hadn’t left his thoughts—not really—for years. She always seemed to linger. That crooked smile. Her hair that fell in such lovely waves he imagined it felt like silk under his fingers. And those greenish-gray eyes the color of the sky after a thunderstorm.

He shouldn’t want her; Eric knew that. It seemed disloyal to be attracted to his brother’s ex-girlfriend, even if Ben was half a continent away. Eric knew how much Ben had loved her, though Ben had never used the word. Even so, Eric had been able to see it in his older brother’s eyes.

Could Eric date someone his brother had loved? What if it got serious? For that matter, what if he somehow ended up hurting her? Would it end up being an issue between him and his brother as well as him and Tiffany?

“Idiot,” he said, and slammed the beer bottle into his trashcan. He was seriously overthinking this. He had yet to go on a date with her, and already he was planning how to handle their possible futures, both good and bad? Honestly, he should get his head examined.

A small laugh escaped him. Maybe he should get Tiffany to do that for him. She was a psych major, after all. And if she wanted to continue the inspection more intimately… well, that would be fine by him.

He grabbed another beer from his fridge and told himself to chill. This wasn’t a date; they were just going to a party together. Friends and coworkers. So there was nothing disloyal going on. And there was no reason to be nervous.

Right? Right.

He checked the clock, saw that she was ten minutes late, and wondered if she was blowing him off.

Three minutes later, he heard her knock, and he hurried to the door, knowing that he was going to come off as over-eager, but not really caring. All he wanted was to see her, and when he pulled open the door, she took his breath away.

She stood in front of him with her hair flowing loose around her face, her lips a soft, kissable pink. She wore a pale blue T-shirt dress that hit mid-thigh and blue sandals. Her toenails were blue, too, and so perfect that he fleetingly wondered if she’d had a pedicure before coming over. And if so, he wondered if it was for him.

“You look great,” he said, meaning it. His cousin Sarah wore that kind of dress all the time, but they hung shapeless and uninteresting on her. With Tiffany, there was nothing dull or shapeless about the outfit. She gave it curves. Made it unique. Hell, it was practically runway ready the way she wore it.

A slow smile spread across her face, lighting her eyes with pleasure. “I’m glad you think so.” She stepped inside, and he caught the scent of vanilla. It made him hungry, although not for food.

“It’s a little summery,” she was saying, and he forced his mind away from how good she smelled. “But the weather’s so crazy lately that I think March is turning into summer.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “That would mean December would come, when? In September? Three months early. I can handle that.”

“Hmm. Good point. But does that mean that May’s already behind us? Because that means I didn’t get everything in this semester. I don’t want to crash and burn in my masters program just because I wore a dress out of season.”

“Right. So that’s no good. How about we let the months stay the same, and we’ll just call the dress a Tiffany Russell fashion statement.”

“That’s me. The ultimate trendsetter.” She looked around. “Nice apartment.”

“If by nice you mean completely uninteresting, then I agree with you.”

She laughed. “Well, it is a little sparse. But it has potential.”

She was right on both counts.

“The potential’s why I rented it,” he said. “I like the open floor plan so I can get in and out of the kitchen easily. The master bedroom is huge, and there’s a smaller bedroom for guests.”

“Have a lot of those?”

“Not really, but my cousin’s a single mom. Sometimes I watch her little boy. When she needs some sanity time. Or when she needs sex and wants him out of the house.”

Tiffany burst out laughing. “Lucky she has you. That explains the two-bedroom. I’m guessing the big kitchen is so you can fiddle around with drink mixes and appetizers?”

“You got it.” For years, he’d been experimenting with making cocktails, and Tyree had even put a few of his creations on the menu at The Fix. But it was only since The Fix sponsored a food fair last October that he’d started trying a hand in the kitchen. He wasn’t great—not yet—but he enjoyed it. And he wanted to speak the language of food as well as he did that of alcohol. To be able to pair things without a recipe book, but simply because he knew the essence of the ingredients.

“That explains the layout,” she said. “But you have a card table to eat on, a futon for a couch, a bookshelf that’s overflowing—some awesome titles, by the way—some milk crates supporting a piece of plywood for a coffee table. What’s in the bedroom? A blow-up air mattress?”

“Want me to show you?” The instant he spoke, he regretted it. The words might be innocent, but his intention definitely wasn’t. From the way she tilted her head to the side, he was certain she’d heard the underlying invitation. When her cheeks flushed and she flashed a tiny half-smile before saying, “Maybe later,” he was sure of it. And the fact that he’d heard as much heat as humor in that response not only gave him cause to be optimistic, it also gave him a hard-on.

“Right.” He cleared his throat, then turned toward the kitchen, both so that he could offer her a drink and so that he could hide some of the evidence that she was making him crazy.

Despite the open floor plan, there was still a small breakfast bar off the counter near the refrigerator, and he gestured for her to sit there.

“Want a drink before we go down?”

“Down?”

“The party’s in the pool building. There’s a bar down there, but I can’t vouch for the offerings.”

Eric was a drink snob, a fact that pretty much everyone at the bar knew. Not that he didn’t think there was a place for cheap alcohol, but he’d decided long ago to make his living tending bar until he could move up to owning his own place. Before that, he’d considered being a sommelier—his palate was excellent—but had quickly learned that he liked the social aspect of tending bar. His parents had been less than enthusiastic when he’d told them, but when he paid his own way through business school at UT so that he’d have the skills to open a restaurant when the time came, they got on board.

Plus, they really appreciated having someone in the family who could make a decent margarita.

Which, frankly, seemed like a good idea now.

When he suggested it, Tiffany nodded enthusiastically. “Much better than the cheap wine and beer they have downstairs, I’m sure. Besides, I’m in no hurry if you aren’t.”

He met her eyes. “No hurry at all.”

Two margaritas each later, and they still weren’t in a hurry. They had, however, moved to the futon. Or Eric had. Tiffany was sitting the floor on the other side of the table, her legs straight out in front of her, her hands behind her to prop herself up. Every few minutes, she’d lean forward and take a sip of her drink, a process that caused her dress to shift and cling in a way that made Eric glad he was seated.

Almost an hour had passed, and they were talking about everything and nothing. Currently, about Tiffany’s plan to run in the Capital 10K. “Since when are you a runner?”

“I’m a runner,” she said indignantly. “I’m just not an experienced runner. But I’m getting better.”

“Didn’t we have a conversation about this time last year when you told me I was—how did you put it—battier than the bats under the bridge if I thought that running ten kilometers in the Texas heat sounded like a good time?”

“No contradiction at all,” she said. “I’m obviously just as crazy as you are.”

“Come here.”

One eyebrow rose. “Why?”

“Come. Here.”

She narrowed her eyes, but she stood, a little bit wobbly, and not in an Emily Post approved manner, either. But he didn’t complain—even if the quick flash of her pale blue panties almost sent him over the edge.

He casually grabbed a pillow and put it on his lap, then pointed in front of him. She moved to stand there, but eyed him dubiously.

“What?”

He didn’t answer. Just reached out and cupped his hand around her leg, just above the knee. Slowly, he slid his hand up, stroking her thigh, feeling the firm, taut muscles. Feeling her tremble.

“You’re right,” he said, his voice low. “Definitely a runner’s leg.”

She exhaled, a low, soft sound that curled inside of him. He wanted to hear more. He wanted to know all the little noises she made. And she wasn’t stopping him. He could keep moving up and up and up, and dear God he was so tempted to touch every inch of her and—

A sharp knock at the door made them both jump, and she scrambled that way, not looking at him.

“Who is it?”

“Party patrol!”

She looked over her shoulder and tossed him a grin. He wondered if her thoughts tracked his—he was thinking that the patroller had just killed one potential party.

She opened the door. A neighbor he recognized—John? Maybe Jake?—stood there with an empty Lone Star beer bottle.

“Dude, you’re missing out. We’re about to play spin the bottle. We’re totally going retro.”

“Sounds great,” Eric said. “We’ll be down soon.”

“Will we?” she asked, closing the door, and while her words sent shockwaves of anticipation scurrying through him like electrons, he wasn’t sure if he was hearing what he thought he was hearing.

She came back, this time sitting on the couch beside him, so close he caught the scent of vanilla. “I’m surprised it’s spin the bottle,” she said. “I thought Never Have I Ever was all the rage now.”

“I’ve been out of school for a couple of years now. Despite the west campus address, I’m pretty out of touch with those wacky kids today.”

“But you know the game, right? You ask a question. And if you have done it, you drink. And in the version my friends and I’ve played, if you haven’t done it, you have to eradicate that omission if at all possible, right then and there.”

“Give me a for example.”

“Never have I ever eaten ice cream,” she said. “I have, so I drink.” She finished off her margarita. “And then I’d have to eat ice cream. But don’t make me,” she added. “It wouldn’t mix with the margie.”

“You’re in luck, because I don’t have any. But you’re also out of your drink.”

She tilted her head. “Does that mean you want to play?”

“Why not?”

“Cool.” She got up and went to the kitchen, then came back with the blender, with enough still in it for each of them to have a fresh glass. Then she sat down next to him on the couch, her glass in hand. “Okay, you go first.”

“All right. Never have I ever kissed a girl.” He took a long sip of his margarita and kept his eyes on her, amused at the way her brows rose.

“Diving right into the good stuff, huh? Or are you just trying to work up a good bedtime fantasy?”

He was still swallowing, and he almost choked on the last comment, but she just batted her eyes and looked innocent. Then she took a drink.

“Who?” he said.

“Marjorie Frederick. Fourth grade. We were practicing.” She shrugged. “Sorry. Nothing very fantasy-like there.”

“Damn, and I really hoped.”

“Did you?”

He shook his head. “Not that I’d object. But that’s not my fantasy of you.”

Damn, but he was getting bolder. Maybe making the margaritas extra strong wasn’t such a great idea after all. Then again, considering the heated way she was looking at him now, maybe it was his most brilliant move ever.

“Your turn.”

She nodded, a pink flush staining her neck and cheeks. “Never have I ever had a secret crush.” She drank. And so did he.

“Me again,” he said, and decided it was now or never. He lifted his glass. “Never have I ever kissed my secret crush.” And then he very firmly put it down without taking a sip.

A heartbeat passed. Then another. Then she set her glass down.

“So.” He swallowed. “You said we’re supposed to fix that if possible. Can you?”

For a second, she didn’t answer. Then she nodded. “What about you?”

“Me, too.”

“Oh.” She licked her lips, and in that moment the only thing he wanted to do was suck on that plump, sweet lower lip. “Tiffany,” he said, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

A wide smile illuminated her face. “Not if I kiss you first.”