I set my briefcase by my feet, perching awkwardly on the baroque seats nestled into the golden alcove. Holly plops down beside me, making me bounce once before her weight settles. She has a wide grin on her face as her fingertips skim down the surface of the seat.

“Ooh, soft,” she mumbles, falling back into the seat with a sigh. Her dark eyes flash to me, a strip of pastel-purple hair sliding free from her braid and falling across her cheek. “God, you look uncomfortable. That spine of yours bend at all?”

I purse my lips, realize I probably look like a prude, and shift back until my back touches the seat.

I’ve been to the Golden Goose more times than I can remember, but I’ve never been seated in these alcoves. Then again, I’d never been here in company before.

“The usual, sir?” Michael asks.

“Yes, thank you.” I turn to Holly, who has her head tipped up to study the golden curve of the wall behind us. “And for you?”

She doesn’t reply. Her mouth is slightly open, her braid shifting as she twists her head left and right to study — I assume — the play of light on the golden paint.

“Holly? Holly!”

“Yo, what?” She straightens, grins at me, and then focuses on the maître d’. “Ooh, yes, a gigantico plate of fries. With catsup. And… get me a Millers.”

“Are you old enough to drink?” I whisper, leaning in close so the maître d’ doesn’t hear me.

Holly’s eyes fix on me with wide-eyed incredulity. “Am I old enough to drink?” she repeats, unnecessarily loud, and then barks out a laugh.

I throw Michael an embarrassed glance, but he’s a stony-faced as ever, hands folded at his waist as he waits for Holly to confirm her order.

Holly snorts and tugs something into her lap. Shockingly, it’s a bag. I hadn’t thought she even had one with her since it blended so seamlessly with her shabby clothing. She plucks out a student ID, waves it in my face and then in the general direction of the maître d’, and shoves it back inside with ill-concealed grace.

“You know what, make that two tequilas and a Miller.” She gives me a brief, fiery glower. “I’m suddenly real fucking thirsty.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” Michael says, taking this all in stride as he disappears into the restaurant.

“Ma’am,” Holly murmurs, snorting. She turns to me, shaking her head. “Am I old enough? Seriously?”

“You just—I wasn’t sure—” I cut off, realizing that I sound like an idiot.

“Man, you got some nerve.” Holly props her head on the back of the couch, staring up. I glance up — just in case I’ve missed something — but it’s the same golden curve as before.

Anyway, I prefer looking at her.

Sitting like this, inches away from me, her smell is intoxicating. And the light shining on her skin makes her seem more ephemeral than before. She looks copy-and-pasted on the seat as if she’d been taken from a faded color photograph and photoshopped onto the Golden Goose’s interior.

With her head thrown back like that, the curve of her neck is perfectly silhouetted against the golden wall beside her. Her pointed chin, her long nose. Her pouty lips.

Her hair looked so soft when it slid into her face. Would it feel like that to touch? Slippery and dry… I have an almost overwhelming urge to reach out and grab a shank of it, that same section that’s nestling against her ear, to see how it contrasts with my skin when I twine it through my fingers.

I force my eyes away, aware that I’m staring again, but they refuse to move past her legs. Her dress drapes between them, outlining their shape. Her knees are apart in a very unladylike way. That fabric clings to her as if a static charge has built up, cleaving the dress to her skin. Even the slope of her stomach and that even stretch of skin by her pussy is outlined.

“Take a selfie, it lasts longer.” Holly’s voice tugs my eyes away.

Heat flashes into my cheeks, and I sit forward in a rush.

But not fast enough. Her arm snakes out, sliding around my shoulders and tugging me back.

She obviously has no issues with personal space.

Before I have time for more than a strangled protest, Holly presses her lips to my cheek, points her phone at our faces, and snaps a picture.

Then her warmth is snatched away as she slides to the side and dips her head, bringing up the photo to show me.

She’s perfectly photogenic, of course. I look like I’ve swallowed a bee.