CHAPTER TWELVE

Charlotte lets out a big breath. She wipes her hand across her forehead. “After that performance, and this long day, I need a drink,” she says when we slide into a cab. “Or two.”

“You and me both.” I tap her knee with my knuckles, then tell the driver to head downtown. “By the way, nurse. Fucking brilliant.”

We knock fists. “And it wasn’t even a lie. It was just a, how shall we say, delayed admission of the truth.”

“Honestly, I’m giving you an A for perfect timing with your delivery tonight.”

“Why thank you,” she says, playfully. “I look forward to my report card.”

I pretend to hand one to her.

She mimes opening it, then reads. “I see I earned straight As.”

I shake my head. “A-plus. The nurse comment counts as extra credit. See?” I stab a finger at the invisible report card, as if I’m pointing it out.

She laughs and grabs my arm. “I couldn’t help myself. Her comments were so old-fashioned.”

My mom stayed home with Harper and me as kids, so I’m totally on board with a mom working out of the house or taking care of the kids. Whatever works for her. In Mom’s case, she raised us, and she also advised my father on his business. Through it all, he treated her like a queen in some ways and an equal in all ways. That’s how it should be, whatever choice a woman makes.

“Speaking of old-fashioned, want to try Gin Joint?” I ask, naming a new bar in Chelsea that’s getting rave reviews, especially for its old-fashioned made with gin.

“Yes. I’ve been up since six a.m.,” she says, then pouts her lips like a movie star of olden days and speaks in a husky, sexy tone. “But I’m still in the mood for a nightcap.”

Soon we walk through a red door into a garden-level bar with soft, sultry music piped in overhead, and wine red, royal blue, and deep purple velvet couches. The place has a New Orleans–style ambiance—rich, dark, and moody.

Charlotte sinks down onto a couch, dropping her purse by her side, relaxation evident in her pose. I order for us, returning with her old-fashioned and a bourbon on the rocks for me.

“To Honest Charlotte,” I say, lifting my glass.

“To Cocker Spaniel Spencer,” she says, then takes a drink. She moans after the first sip and taps her glass. “That is divine. Try it.”

She hands me the glass, and I take a drink. My taste buds do a jig. “Wow. Can we steal their recipe?”

She laughs. “Just like the time we went to Speakeasy,” she says, her eyes twinkling with the memory of how we went into business together. We were celebrating the sale of Boyfriend Material at the opening of a new bar in midtown. We’d ordered the bar’s signature cocktail, the Purple Snow Globe, which went on to become a big hit as a packaged drink sold in grocery stores. It was so damn good, we’d both pointed to our drinks at the same time, and said “Let’s steal this recipe.”

“Jinx, you owe me a drink,” we’d then said in unison.

That had sealed the deal on our plans. In college, we were beer snobs, and we used to joke at parties that we’d open our own bar someday, and we’d kick ass at it because we could tell the difference between quality beer and the swill from a keg. Hardly a special skill, but even so, that was what got us rolling.

Once we graduated, we went in different directions work wise, even though we stayed close friends. I launched my app, and Charlotte snagged a plum gig in business development at a Fortune 500 company. The hours were ruthless, though, the environment was cutthroat, and there wasn’t a single ounce of enjoyment. She was miserable but determined not to wallow in it, so she started making plans to do what she loved—run a business based on fun, being social, and hanging out with friends. When she gave notice, she asked me if I was ready to do what we’d talked about the night we’d vowed never to drink keg beer.

“I’ve been squirreling away my yearly bonuses. Want to open a bar in midtown with me?”

Flush with cash from the sale, and ready for a new adventure, I’d said yes in seconds. “Can we name the bar after the dogs we had as kids?”

“Hell yeah.”

The rest is history. The Lucky Spot is profitable and has expanded to three locations, and we have a blast running it together.

Charlotte and I reminisce about our early days in business as Gin Joint fills up. The door opens, and a group of pretty, sexy ladies wearing slinky jeans and heels that go on forever pour in. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a part of me says to check them out, but the thought vanishes almost as quickly as it appears.

Charlotte finishes her old-fashioned just as my bourbon disappears. We move on to seconds as we talk about our most memorable customers over the years. The conversation is free and easy, and it reminds me of why we work so well as friends, and why it’s so much better for our friendship if we don’t ever practice kissing again. Because I don’t want to give this up. She’s the person I can most be myself with, and I like just chilling here with her. We didn’t do a ton of this when Bradley Dipstick was in the picture.

Like she can read my mind, Charlotte sighs happily and says, “I missed doing this with you when I was with that jackass.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

She tilts her head and looks up at me. “Really?” The expression on her face is one of wonder and surprise. “So it works, then?”

“What works?” I ask curiously.

She runs a finger along the side of my hair. “The device I implanted in your head so I could read your mind,” she says in mock seriousness.

I laugh and squeeze her shoulder. “You got me. Next round on me.”

“The entire night better be on you.”

“It is. And yes, I missed this, too—hanging with you when you were with him.”

“Going to your house. Binge watching TV shows, eating gummy bears or lemonheads, and drinking tequila or wine, depending on what we decided went best together.”

“We really are quite savvy at our candy-liquor pairings.”

“We are.” Charlotte sighs happily and scoots closer, almost like she’s going to cuddle with me. “You know, this might sound weird, but I’m glad I caught him screwing that woman. Buying a place with him would have been such a mistake. It was like someone was looking out for me, in a weird way. Does that sound crazy?”

“Not at all.”

“If I were with him—engaged to him and living with him—I wouldn’t be able to do this with you.”

At first I’m sure she means hanging out. But when I feel a brush of her hand against my leg, I wonder if she means something else.

I look down, and her palm is spread across my thigh. Interesting. I’m honestly not sure when that happened, or why I didn’t notice it before, but her hand is warm, and it feels good, and I suppose I’m getting used to her touching me. Maybe that’s why I didn’t realize she’s been touching me the last few minutes as we’ve been chatting. I’ve quickly grown accustomed to her hands on my body.

When the waitress strolls by, Charlotte calls her over, and orders a gin and tonic. By the time it arrives five minutes later, Charlotte’s hand is no longer resting on my thigh. It’s moving. She strokes little lines along my leg, and this isn’t just handsy anymore. This is something else entirely.

I’m caught off guard and completely unprepared for this side of Charlotte—the nighttime, after hours Charlotte, who is very much touching me like we are together, even though there’s no audience now.

“Spencer,” she says, and her voice is all floaty and happy, “I’m so glad we went into business together.”

Okay, that makes sense. She’s in one of those happy-go-lucky tipsy moods where she gushes about life being good. I can handle this. She takes a sip of her drink, sets down the glass, and shifts closer. As she moves nearer, so do her fingertips, as they migrate higher up my leg.

Whoa.

Was not expecting all this hand action, nor the subtle path she’s taking.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

Her fingers brush higher on the fabric of my pants. She’s getting friendlier. Much friendlier. Just how strong are these drinks?

“I was so miserable before we started it, and now I love what I do,” she says, and her hand on my thigh suddenly acquires a mind of its own. Or hormones of its own. Because it is on a one-way path to my dick. And it’s like someone cranked up the heat in the bar. “Do you know why else I’m glad I’m not with Bradley?”

“Why?” I ask carefully, as those nimble, eager fingers inch closer. I’m en fuego. My neck is hot. My hair might be up in flames. I could melt polar caps right about now.

“Because I’m having a great time playing pretend with you,” she says, and her right breast presses against my arm. She’s so soft, and I’m dying to know what her breasts feel like in my hands, how she’d respond to my fingers tracing circles across the sensitive flesh, the noises she’d make when I suck a nipple into my mouth.

How hard her nipples get from my lips.

There I go again.

Exactly where I shouldn’t be.

Her fingers are not inches, not centimeters, but now millimeters from the outline of my dick.

I know what to do, and at the same time, I don’t have a clue. My instincts tell me the moves to make, how to touch, how to kiss, how to fuck. But it’s like a page from the playbook is missing. A whole damn chapter even. Because this is Charlotte, and our situation is beyond bizarre. We’re friends and business partners. We’re fake lovers who aren’t fucking. Yesterday, we were sober and practicing kissing, and tonight we were performing for an audience.

Now all bets are off. It’s just us, and yet we’re still touching.

Neither one of us is operating at top-notch brainpower, though. I’m tipsy, but she’s highly buzzed. That’s got to be where all this persistent contact is coming from. It’s like the bar is trying to seduce us, to weave its spell on us. It’s dark, and everyone around us is touching, arms around waists, hands in pockets, lips on neck. Gin Joint is pulsing with dirty thoughts. It’s beating with the promise of midnight, and sex after dark.

My breath flees my chest when her fingers touch my hard-on. Her eyes light up, like she’s opening a gift, and that’s exactly how I want a woman to feel, but precisely how Charlotte should not fucking feel.

“Charlotte,” I say, my voice a harsh warning.

“Spencer,” she whispers, her lips pouty and sexy as she lingers on the last letter. When she does that, all I can see is her lips on my cock, her blonde hair spilling across my legs, her head bobbing up and down. It’s a glorious image, and a goddamn dangerous one.

The tempo shifts again when she simply rests her head on my shoulder, and returns her hands to her lap.

Like she turned off the light switch.

“I just like hanging out with you,” she says, her eyes fluttering, like she’s sleepy.

“I like it, too,” I rasp out. “And you’re tired.”

“I know. Long day. My pillow is calling out to me.”

Great. Fucking great. I’m turned on, and she’s sliding into the snooze zone. Her hands have settled down, her touchy-feely side has subsided, and I’m left with a massive fucking erection, and my best friend’s sexy-as-sin body snuggled by my side on a velvet couch.

Fifteen minutes later, we get in a cab. I give the driver Charlotte’s address, because I want to make sure my happy, tipsy, tired friend gets home safely. After the word “Lexington” leaves my mouth, I turn to look at her, and everything happens in a wild blur.