25
IAN
Week 4: Friday Night
“Where’d those come from?” I ask as Sabrina fans out fussy little square napkins I’ve never seen in my life.
“Stationery store up in Flatiron,” she says, tilting her head to analyze the angle of her napkin arrangement. “Aren’t they fabulous?”
I grunt in response. “And you’re here because . . . ?”
“Well, imagine for a second if we both had better parents,” she says, going to the sink to trim the ends off the flowers she brought with her. “They would have wanted to see us off to prom. Document it. Make sure you had the corsage.” She holds up the flowers.
I look at Matt, who’s sitting at the barstool in my kitchen. “What’s she talking about?”
“Got me.” Matt shrugs and digs his hand into a bowl of fancy cheese cracker things, yet another Sabrina addition. “I never speak her language.”
Sabrina slaps the back of his hand. “Don’t touch. Those are for Lara.”
“Ouch!” He shakes his hand. “Since when do you like the SEC better than me?”
“Since always. I like everyone better than you.”
“I’m still not following the prom reference,” I interject, watching skeptically as Sabrina arranges flowers in a vase I didn’t know I had.
“Prom is a big deal,” she says, repositioning a flower whose name I definitely do not know. “So is your first date.”
“Oh Jesus,” I mutter. “That again?”
“They grow up so fast,” Matt says, picking up one of Sabrina’s napkins and dabbing at his eyes.
“Don’t touch those, either,” Sabrina tells Matt. “Do you have any idea how much those cost?”
“Like you can’t afford it. How much are you charging these days to play God with other people’s lives?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’m within your budget, Boy Wonder. So if you’re looking to hire someone to help with your inadequate—”
“All right,” I interrupt. “Out. Get out.”
“But—”
“Nope.” I pick up Sabrina’s bag and push it against her chest, shoving her toward the door. “Bye.”
Matt gives her a goodbye wave, using mostly his middle finger to do so.
“You too,” I say to him.
He frowns as Sabrina gloats. “I think I should be here,” he insists, even as he stands. “You know, to run interference.”
“Yes, that’s what every date needs.”
“Ian, you can’t seriously be thinking about seeing this woman—”
“Enough!”
I don’t have a temper. I really don’t. But there’s a fine line between friends being friends, and friends being monotonous pains in my ass.
“Did I give you shit when you and Sabrina screwed, and then screwed each other over? Do I lecture Kennedy and Kate on whatever the hell is going on there? No. I let you guys do your thing, live your lives, so let me do the same. Please.”
Matt stares at me for a moment, then glances at Sabrina, who shrugs.
“Fine,” he grumbles finally. “Will you call me when she leaves?”
“No, because that would be weird,” I say, putting my hand between his shoulder blades and shoving him none too gently toward my front door.
Sabrina’s already there, opening it before reaching into her purse to apply her lipstick. “At least text us. We just want to be sure she’s not playing you, that this isn’t some trick—”
“I don’t deal in tricks.”
We all turn to see Lara standing in the doorway, clutching a bottle of wine to her chest and looking pissed. And maybe a little stung.
Sabrina has the decency to wince. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah. You did,” Lara interrupts.
She’s not wearing her glasses tonight, and her hair’s down, the same way it was that night at the club. But my favorite part is that she’s wearing jeans and some sort of strappy top. How long has it been since I’ve spent Friday night with a woman in jeans? It’s usually fancy dresses, uncomfortable shoes, and a shit-ton of hairspray.
Lara looks comfortable. And it’s one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.
Well, that and the righteously furious look on her face.
“The case is closed. I think Ian’s innocent, both professionally and personally. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” Lara says coolly.
Then the impossible happens. Sabrina flushes with embarrassment and says . . . nothing.
Both Matt and I stare at her in shock. Sabrina Cross doesn’t do anything but bold confidence.
“And you,” Lara says, shifting her attention to Matt. “You and Kennedy are good watchdogs. I can appreciate that. But you’re also Ian’s friends, and you need to know when to back off.”
“Hey,” Matt snaps. “You’ve known him for how long? The rest of us have been here for years—”
“Excellent,” Lara says with a bright smile. “Then as a friend who’s known him for years, you trust and respect his judgment, right?”
Matt’s jaw works angrily, but he knows when he’s been outmaneuvered. “Right.”
“Wonderful.” She steps to the side in a pointed command. Leave.
To my surprise, they do.
Matt and Sabrina, for the first time ever, leave docilely without so much as a backward glance.
Hell, they’re not even arguing with each other.
I give Lara an awestruck look. “You have no idea how impressive that was.”
She smiles and walks into the apartment. “Sorry if I overstepped. They really do care for you.”
“They do. Doesn’t make them right, though.”
Lara looks up at me, her blue eyes unguarded without her glasses. “So you don’t believe them? You don’t think I’m here in hopes you’ll admit something about J-Conn?”
I step closer, and, hooking a finger beneath her chin, I tilt her face up to mine. “I don’t think we should even mention the word J-Conn for the rest of the night.” I brush my mouth against hers. “Deal?”
In response, her hand winds around my neck, pulling me down, and what I’d intended to be a quick peck immediately becomes heated.
Normally I like to be in control, but I love the way Lara kisses me. I let her do it her way, both hungry and a little bit shy. It’s perfect. Everything from the tentative brush of her tongue against mine to the way she cups my cheek makes me feel like this is the only kiss that’s ever mattered.
She pulls back and shoves the wine bag at my chest. “Here. Never come to someone else’s house empty-handed and all that.”
I reach into the bag and pull out what I’d assumed was a bottle of wine. I grin when I see it’s not. “Campari.” It’s one of the main ingredients in a Negroni.
“And . . .” She digs through her enormous purse until she comes up with a bottle of . . .
Stain remover.
“Just in case,” she says, handing it to me and patting my chest before she walks all the way into my apartment. “It looks different from the other night.”
“I rearranged to make room for the bar,” I say, setting the Campari next to Sabrina’s flowers. “This is how it normally looks.”
“It’s very . . . manly,” she says, looking around.
I pull a bottle of champagne out of the fridge. “Did you not see the prissy little pillow on the couch?”
She leans forward to look at the generic pillow in question. “It’s hardly homemade needlepoint.”
“Needle-what?” I ask, coming toward her with a champagne glass.
“My point exactly.” She accepts the glass, and I clink mine to hers in a wordless toast.
She drops her gaze to my shirt and tilts her head. “It’s black.”
I glance down at my black shirt. “So?”
“And there’s no tie.”
“Your observational skills are top-notch tonight, McKenzie,” I say with a smirk.
“It’s just . . . this is the first time I’ve seen you in anything other than a suit. I like it.”
I touch her hair, running my fingers through the silky strands. “Hmm. All this time I’ve been trying to get you to not hate my guts, and I could have just ditched the dress shirt.”
“I didn’t hate your guts.”
I give her a knowing look. “You wanted me to drop dead that first day on the sidewalk. Admit it.”
“You were a jerk. Admit that.”
“I was a jerk,” I say without hesitation.
She gives an exasperated laugh. “You’re very difficult to argue with, you know that?”
“So don’t argue. Sit. Let’s discuss what I should feed you,” I say, gesturing toward the barstools.
She hops onto the sleek black seat and picks up a napkin from the counter. “Sabrina?”
I roll my eyes. “Obviously. Now . . . sushi, Italian, Chinese, or other?” I say, sliding my cell phone across the counter where I’ve pulled up the food-delivery app.
She bites her lip. “How do we feel about pizza?”
The woman shows up in jeans, carrying Campari, and wants to order pizza.
Where has she been all my life?
“I feel good about pizza,” I say, pulling my phone back and typing in the name of a place around the corner.
I feel pretty damn good about you, too.