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Then he drained his Franken-cocktail in a single gulp. I would have been so grossed out if I didn’t find the bobbing of the lump in his throat so sexy.
But at least that signaled the end of the work talk. Angelica had wandered off to chat with the bouncer, Frances McDoorman. They appeared to be exchanging notes on grappling and unarmed combat. Xtra Xtra and Houston had mysteriously disappeared, leaving just me and Morrow at our booth.
I twiddled my thumbs, suddenly awkward despite all the time we’d been spending together. He was slightly tipsy, and very, very warm, the heat of his body radiating against me even though we were sitting a perfectly acceptable distance apart on the same banquette. He smiled contentedly at nothing, absently bobbing his head to the music.
“So if this is supposed to be Pop Diva Night,” he said, “I’m a little surprised — and offended — that they don’t have anyone impersonating Carly Rae Jepsen.”
“Oh my god, Morrow, not this again.”
“Yes, this again. You have to promise to listen to the playlist I made you, okay? I worked really hard on it.”
He pouted. My stomach did a cartwheel. And then a guy in a buzz cut and a very tight tank top stopped right at our table, waggling his eyebrows at me.
“Hi there,” he said, grinning out of the corner of his mouth. “I saw you from across the bar.”
“He’s with me,” Morrow immediately said, firm but polite. He slung one arm over my shoulders, his muscles tightening as he pulled me closer. The little flicker of warmth that danced in my belly whenever Morrow was around roared into a four-alarm fire.
The guy with the buzz cut put his hands up and smiled, saying something like, “Y’all have a good night.” The fuck if I could remember, I was too busy burning like a wildfire.
“I’m with you?” I asked Morrow.
“Of course, we are. Physically, that is. Together. Right here. So you’re with me.”
The confusing blaze of fondness and desire burning through my body erupted into anger. I shook his arm off and twisted my whole body to face him. He inched away, a concerned look on his face. I think he gulped a little, too.
“You’re driving me absolutely insane, Morrow. Maybe it’s the piña colada talking, and I’m going to regret saying this, but I’m going to regret not saying it even more. All these mixed signals, it’s like you’re flirting with me, except you’re not, and — fuck, this could ruin everything between us. For work. As friends. Everything. But I have to do this.”
I took a deep, bracing breath, inhaling all the oxygen in the club. Fuck it. Now or never.
“Do. You. Like. Women?”
Morrow blinked, swallowed hard, licked his lips. “Um. Yes.”
It felt as if I’d been dropped in a bucket of ice-cold water. No. A refrigerated bowl of leftover oatmeal. The disappointment was thick, cloying, and kind of gross.
“But I think I might like guys, too.”
My heart thumped. “Oh?”
“Yeah. But I don’t think I’ll know for sure until I kiss one.”
“Oh.”
Morrow rubbed his hair, a few of those soft, golden strands I liked so much falling just over his eyes. I liked those, too, piercing and gray, especially when his gaze lingered, when he looked at me just a little too long.
He was looking at me way too long.
He shifted closer, his arm finding its way over my shoulders again, firm, but polite.
“Until I kiss you, I mean. Specifically. If that’s okay with you.”
Breathing suddenly felt like the hardest thing in the world.
“You’re spoiled for choice, my dude,” I said, deflecting like a weirdo. “Tons of hot guys in here, and you — ”
“Frost,” he said, taking my chin in one hand. “For once? Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.”
And so I did, his kiss sealing the rest of my excuses away, his lips stronger than any quieting spell. And so soft, too. The liquor-sweet of his mouth, the faint paper, incense, and musk of his perfume, the fine hairs at the base of his neck.
