me and join Abbott by the elevator banks, the button already glowing. When the gold doors glide open, Abbott leans on one side of the car, I lean on the other, and—is it just me, or is there sexual tension in here? Real tension, not the kind left over from sharing a chaste kiss.
Wait…is that a half-mast boner in my pants?
Shit.
I catch her eyes sliding up and down my torso, resting briefly on the crotch of my slacks before traveling up my chest, over my shoulders.
“Are you objectifying me?”
She purses her lips. “Pfft.”
“Is that a yes?”
“That’s a no.”
What a sweet little liar. I smirk. “Right.”
“You wish.”
Some nights, yeah. “Hardly.” That came out rough, edgy, and far too unkind.
Her brow softens, expression changing. “Don’t be a jerk so soon after you kissed me.”
“Sorry.” Fuck, I’m losing my touch. Relax, buddy. Chill. Abbott is your friend—she’s just teasing you.
Friends, and not the kind with any sort of benefit. Which isn’t true, because she feeds me and gives me shelter, so basically I’m a stray cat, but one with a home?
“I am sorry.”
She doesn’t say a word, because it’s not okay, simply putting a hand up to quell my talking.
“Sorry.” There. Now I’ve said it three times like a complete schmuck.
“I get it. It’s fine.” Mood killed, she’s watching the numbers above the door change as we ascend to the higher floors.
Twelve.
Fourteen.
Seventeen.
At twenty, it dings and the doors slide open to the lobby of our floor.
I sweep my hand out. “After you.”
Her lips purse. “Thanks.”
“Movies, your place in ten?”
Abbott bites down on her lower lip, which I wonder about because it’s cherry red and pouty, yet no color appears on her teeth when she releases it.
Interesting.
“Bring chips or something. Don’t be a slouch,” is her reply, and all is forgiven. As she hikes her sleek leather purse onto her shoulder, she tosses her hair and I catch a whiff.
Damn, I always love the way she smells.
“Race you to the couch.” Why am I so competitive?
“Ha ha.” She throws a look over her shoulder. “You gave me back my key, remember?”
“You should probably give it back so I have one.”
“Why? We’re not in a relationship.”
“So?”
Another once-over by Abbott as she says, “When I start dating someone, he will have the only other copy of my key.”
“Other than Nan,” I correct her.
Her blue eyes sparkle before she presents me with her back. I watch her work the key into the gold lock above her handle. It inserts smoothly and turns, lock clicking out of place. Her slender hand grips the handle, pushing.
When she faces me again, her smile is soft. “Other than Nan.”
I bet she’s soft all over.
Abbott—not her nan.
Jesus, maybe I’m tipsier than I thought.
“Ten minutes. I’ll bring snacks.”
“Good. I shouldn’t be the only snack in the apartment,” she jokes. It startles me for a second; Abbott isn’t one to make innuendos, at least not of the sexual variety, and certainly not ones that are directed at me.
It’s a day for firsts.
“Do you have any single friends?”
The question comes out of left field, like a grenade dropping into the living room and exploding all over the fucking furniture, scattering debris everywhere.
My body goes tense, tortilla chip paused mid-bite, salt licking my tongue.
“Why?”
Abbott makes a noncommittal sound from the bottom of her throat that sounds suspiciously like a low chuckle. “I’m single and looking for love in all the wrong places, ha ha,” she jokes halfheartedly, popping open a can of Pringles and digging in with her entire hand. She chomps, which makes me glare.
Hello, I just kissed you—now you want me to set you up with my friends? Is she insane?
Crunch, crunch. “Is that a no?”
I scoff. “None I would introduce you to.”
“So you do have single friends?”
That’s a fuck no in guy speak. “One or two, but they’re douchebags.”
“If they’re such douchebags, why are you friends with them?”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, Abbott, but I’m also a douchebag.”
“You’re a wannabe.”
I feel butthurt about that. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You act like a hard-ass, but you’re actually a softie. All you want is to do your job and do it well, and eat good food.”
She leans back on the couch, propping her feet up on the coffee table and squeezing one eye shut, studying the Pringle she’s pinching between two fingers. “Why do guys always refuse to set me up with their friends?”
Because they’re too busy trying to sleep with you themselves. I refuse to explain the mentality of men. She doesn’t