This was my plan: drinks with Adam at five, home by seven. At the latest.

Even with Mark’s unpredictable work schedule lately, I can’t imagine him leaving the restaurant during the dinner rush. I figured I’d beat him home, pour a glass of wine, and, depending how my meeting with Adam went, figure out what to tell him.

Now, if you’re thinking, That’s a horrible plan, you’d be right.

It wasn’t a great plan to start with, but I could have made it work if I’d stuck with it, which . . . I didn’t.

So now it’s ten o’clock, and despite the fact that I wished on every possible power in the universe on my drive home that Mark would still be at work when I pull up to my house, nobody was listening.

I do a casual drive-by around to the front of Mark’s house before pulling into my own garage, and his truck’s there.

Okay, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing. It’s not like I have any missed calls or texts from him. Maybe I wore him out from our sexcapades earlier, and he went straight to bed. Maybe . . .

I walk into my dark kitchen and let out a little squeak at the male figure leaning against my counter, drinking a glass of water.

“Creepy much?” I ask, putting a hand over my pounding heart as I drop my purse and flick on the lights.

Mark takes a sip of water, but says nothing. He looks me over, taking in my wedge boots, tight jeans, and going-out shirt.

His eyes flick up to mine. “Good night?”

I swallow. “It was interesting. How was work?”

I really want that wine, but instead I go to the cabinet and pull out a water glass, hoping the way I fill it from the pitcher in the fridge looks casual and not guilty.

“Adam or Colin?”

I fumble the pitcher. “Um.”

Mark sets his glass aside, lays the heels of his hands on the counter, and waits.

I close the fridge and face him. “How did you know?”

His half smile is sad. “Aren’t you the one that’s always reminding me we’ve been best friends for nearly a decade? I knew where you were because I know you.”

I nibble my bottom lip as I study him, trying to figure out what he’s thinking—feeling. He doesn’t look mad, but then Mark’s not exactly a heart-on-his-sleeve kind of guy.

But the last thing I want to do is play games with my best friend, so I give him the truth, even though it doesn’t exactly show me in the best light.

“I was afraid if I told you Adam reached out, you would tell me not to go.”

There. It’s not a pretty admission, but it’s honest.

For a second, Mark says nothing, then he says only a word.

“Adam.”

I swear something like relief passes over his face as he says the name. “How’d you find him?”

“He found me, actually.” I take a sip of the water. “I’d put feelers out to a mutual friend a few days ago, but I didn’t expect anything to come of it.”

“Lucky you to be wrong,” he says, in that same mild voice. “How’d it go? He pass the mistletoe test?”

I wince, because the thought of kissing Adam Bartley is so . . . so . . .

“Adam’s gay,” I blurt out. “I went out to meet him for a drink, only to find out the reason he was so eager to meet me was because he and his partner have adopted his nephew. They’re trying to get him into Emory Academy.”

I pause, waiting for him to say something, anything. He doesn’t, so I keep babbling.

“That’s why I’m home so late. I thought it was just going to be a quick drink, to see if he was the one, you know, and then I found out real quick that he was no longer interested in females, and we got to talking about schools, and kids, and then his partner joined us, and a drink turned into dinner, and . . .”

Mark holds up a hand. “Why didn’t you just tell me before you left?”

I blow out a breath. “I should have. It’s just that you thought this whole thing is so stupid, and that was before you and I . . .”

His eyebrows lift. “Yes?”

I surprise myself by blushing. “You know.”

“I do. Just wondering what verb you’d use to describe it. I’d like to know what we’re doing here, Kelly.”

“We’re . . .” I wave my hand. “Sleeping together.”

“For how long? Until your next ex calls?”

“Colin’s not going to call.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. It’s so the wrong thing to say, because Mark’s eyes go dark, his voice a growl. “Do you want Colin to call?”

I swallow. Just two days ago, I’d have thought yes—that if the guy I once thought I’d marry called and wanted to see me, I’d move heaven and earth to make it happen. That if a guy I hadn’t heard from in years and maybe had kind of sort of never quite gotten over wanted to get back together, I’d have been giddy-happy.

But at the moment, I can barely remember what Colin looks like. There’s only Mark, and the way that he’s looking at me like I’m his, and not just as a friend or sex buddy.

When I can’t find the words to reply to his question, Mark slowly pushes away from the counter, crowding me until my back bumps against the door of the fridge.

His hands cup my face, thumbs forcing my chin up so I have to meet his eyes. “You know me, Kelly. Better than anyone.” His thumbs brush against my cheeks tenderly, at odds with the fierce look on his face. “You know me, so you know I don’t like to share.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“What’s it going to be, Kelly?” he says, his lips drifting softly over my cheek. “Do we see where this thing with us goes? Or are you holding out for your Christmas miracle?”

It’s hard to think when his hands and mouth are on me. Something I think he knows, because he’s found a particularly sensitive part of my neck and licks.

I try to keep my head. “But that lady said—”

Mark goes perfectly still then pulls away. “Damn it, still with that? You seriously think you’re going to find the love of your life—someone you dumped or who dumped you—waiting under the tree on Christmas morning? Do you even hear yourself?”

I wrap my arms around myself to shield myself from the chill coming off my best friend. “You don’t have to mock.”

He closes his eyes in frustration. “I’m not trying to mock, but the woman I’m . . . sleeping with goes dashing off with former lovers the second they call. How’m I supposed to feel about that?”

I swallow. “I didn’t realize . . . I thought you and I were just having fun.”

“Not enough, obviously, if you sneak out while I’m at work to meet up with an ex.”

“He was gay! He’s in a committed relationship with a new family!”

“Which you didn’t know when you agreed to meet him!”

Rigby comes into the room, and then creeps back out again when he hears our angry voices. I don’t blame him. I sort of want to go hide under a bed myself.

But I don’t. I can’t. Because Mark’s right, and I’ve behaved horribly. But admitting that doesn’t help with any of my confusion.

I push my fingers through my hair and take a deep breath. “I’m confused. I don’t know whether to treat you like my best friend or my boyfriend.”

I expect one or both of us to freak out at the term “boyfriend,” but interestingly the word doesn’t seem quite as awkward as I anticipate, and that right there fills me with a whole fresh kind of terror.

I can’t be falling for my best friend . . . can I?

He relaxes his arms and steps closer once more. Not touching me, but within reach if I want to touch him. Which I do.

“What do you want me to be? Best friend or boyfriend?”

Both.

I swallow. “I don’t know that I’m ready to put a label on it.”

“Okay. What do you know?”

I reach out, gently set my hand on his chest, and look up. “I know I want you. I know that all I can think about is touching you, and having you touch me. I also know I’m scared of losing you. Of messing up the most important relationship of my life with sex.” He says nothing, and I search his face. “Aren’t you scared? Or at least weirded out? After all this time of being platonic, like brother and sister—”

“No.”

“What?”

He cups the back of my head and rests his forehead on mine. “I have never thought of you like a sister.”

“Sure, but you know what I mean. All this time you’ve never wanted me like that, and I’m afraid you’ll remember all the reasons you didn’t, and—”

Mark stamps out my babbling with a searing kiss. “I’ve wanted,” he says against my mouth, a little gruffly. “God, how I’ve wanted.”

My brain tries to comprehend his words, tries to understand what he means, to wrap my brain around it, but . . .

I can’t think.

Not when he’s kissing like that, not when his hands are pulling me to him, drawing me into a kiss that consumes every part of my soul.

I lift my hands to his face, my fingers tunneling in his thick dark hair as I finally give myself all the way over to what’s happening here. I want my best friend, and he wants me right back. Not in a one-time hookup kind of way, but in a can’t-get-enough-of-each-other way.

Mark’s hands are on my butt, his tongue is in my mouth, and I let him lift me, wrapping my legs around his waist as he pivots us, setting me on the counter.

Something crashes to the ground—my paper towel roll holder, I think, but neither of us so much as pauses.

He peels my shirt over my head. I tear at his buttons like a madwoman, my lips greedy on his shoulders, his pecs, bending down so I can trace my tongue over the ridges of his stomach.

Mark lets out a grunt of pleasure, allowing my lips to play over his stomach, my fingers to flit over the front of his jeans before his fingers tangle in my hair, pulling my head back up for a blistering kiss.

He slips a hand around to my back, unfastening the bra with a single flick.

My bra gone, he devours my breasts, hand on one, mouth at the other, switching back and forth with relentless determination until I’m panting his name.

He kisses me again, fingers finding the button of my jeans.

“Wait,” I manage against his mouth. “My boots . . .”

He lets out a growl of frustration, then pulls back and reaches for my feet. A moment later, both boots hit the ground, my jeans and thong quickly joining them.

I let out an embarrassed giggle as I realize I’m completely naked on my own kitchen counter. “Hold up, we can’t—”

His fingers delve between my legs, middle finger circling slowly over my clit before dipping down and sinking inside me.

I tighten around his finger with a moan.

“What was that we can’t?” he asks, his mouth pausing against my breast, his fingers stilling and pulling away.

“Never mind,” I say, grabbing his wrist and pushing his hand back toward my throbbing center.

I feel him smile wickedly against my flesh before his tongue wraps around my nipple, fingers teasing, circling, spreading . . .

Mark bends down, pushing me back gently as his tongue joins his fingers between my legs, licking between my folds with soft, sinful strokes.

As with before, he has me on the edge of orgasm in an embarrassingly short amount of time, and even as my hips arch to his mouth, there’s a part of me that wants something more . . .

My turn.

I wriggle away, and he pulls back in surprise as I hop off the counter. “Is this not okay?”

“It will be,” I say, pressing a hand to his chest and slowly walking my fingers down to his jeans.

Mark gives a grunt of surprise as I lower to my knees, tugging the denim and boxers downward until I have access to him—all of him.

My lips and tongue tease, keeping my touch light and fleeting, wanting him to need it. To need me.

His head is tipped back, looking beautifully male, as my lips roam over him, until he can take no more and twines his fingers in my hair, looking down and meeting my eyes.

“Please.”

His gruff plea is perhaps one of the hottest things I’ve experienced in my life, and I give him exactly what we both want. I wrap my lips around him and suck, gently at first, then more enthusiastically as his hands urge me on.

He lets me control the situation for only a few minutes before he takes what he wants, his touch both gentle and commanding as he holds my head still, thrusting into my greedy mouth.

I look up and meet his eyes, offering, maybe even begging to stay on my knees as he goes over the edge.

He bites his lips in a delicious moment of indecision before leaning down and pulling me to my feet.

“With you,” he says against my mouth, capturing my lips in a tongue-tangling kiss.

His arm goes around my waist, lifting me so my legs wrap around his waist.

He walks me gently backward to where we started the encounter, my back to the fridge, the cold surface against my back a perfect contrast to his warmth pressed to my front.

Mark thrusts inside me. Hard. Possessive. I cry out, and he immediately gentles, but I shake my head and arch into him. More.

His hands grab my hips, my fingers dig into his shoulders, until the ecstasy finally takes me there. I go over the edge with a cry, and he goes right over with me, his own rough breathing matching mine.

Mark gathers me close to him, arms warm around my back as he helps me ease gently to my feet.

We meet each other’s gaze for a long moment, saying silently what we’re not ready to say with words: This thing between us is important, and so much more than sex.

He clears his throat and steps back, bending down to retrieve our clothes.

I reach out and touch his wrist as he steps into his boxers and reaches for his jeans.

“Do you want to . . .” I lick my lips nervously. “Stay?”

He stills. “You want me to stay over?”

“Too much?” I ask, smoothing my messy hair back. “I know your own home is just a few steps away, so maybe it’s better—”

He uses the knuckle of his forefinger to gently touch my cheek, stopping my babble. “Yeah. I’d like to stay.”

My heart squeezes with something I don’t know how to define, and I manage a smile. “You should know that your dog likes to cuddle in the middle of my bed.”

“I do know, because your dog likes to cuddle in the middle of my bed.”

As though knowing we’re talking about him, Rigby bounds into the kitchen, squeaky toy in his mouth, clearly waiting to see if it’s time to go to bed.

“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the stairs.

The dog needs no further encouragement, bounding up ahead of me and Mark.

I expect it to be awkward. Do we spoon? Does he want more sex? Is he tired and simply wants to sleep?

“I don’t have an extra toothbrush. . . .”

“I’ll live,” he says, peeling back the covers of my bed and plopping down. Rigby leaps up beside him, circling twice and then curling into a ball next to his shoulder.

I smile at the sight, realizing it’s one I could get very, very used to.

I put on pajamas, then brush my teeth and wash my face. When I come back into the bedroom, I turn out the light, expecting to crawl into the only free space, on the other side of Rigby.

But Mark’s nudged the dog over to the far side, putting himself in the middle. Wordlessly he lifts the covers, inviting me in.

I slip into his arms, and he pulls the blankets over both of us, then pulls me against him.

“I didn’t take you for a cuddler,” I whisper into the darkness.

He’s silent for a moment. “I’m not.”

I pat his forearm, which is wrapped around my waist. “Hate to be the one to tell you this, but this right here? Cuddling.”

“I meant that I’m not usually. Not before.”

“Not before . . .?”

I feel him smile against my neck, stubbornly refusing to answer. I smile, too, because I know what he’s not saying.

Not before me.