bulging bag of takeout in my right hand.
“I have extra in case Cris shows up hungry tonight. We’ve, ah, been working late nights.”
“Uh-huh.” His eyelids are at half-mast, his mouth a knowing tilt. “Vivian said she’s dating and it’s not going well.”
“Nate!” she admonishes. “That’s proprietary!”
“I don’t count,” he informs her.
“I’m helping her out,” I explain, sweat prickling the back of my neck.
“You are?” Vivian asks. I’m surprised she didn’t know. I thought she and Cris talked more often than Cris and me.
“Yeah. We’re doing postmortems after her dates. Sometimes she comes over hungry and I have to be ready.”
“So, she leaves her date and then comes to your place for dinner and drinks?” Viv’s eyebrows leap over her dark sunglasses, her slight smile almost accusatory.
“What are friends for?” I say with a shoulder shrug. Cris is at my house a lot. Now, a little more than usual. I’m not seeing the big deal.
“Be good to your life assistant,” Nate warns, his mouth screwed into an amused tilt.
“Life assistant coach,” I correct automatically.
He laughs. I wish them well and turn to leave. Nate has been giving me shit about Cris for a while now. He maintains she has an incurable obsession with me, but I can’t let the idea take root. She’s my best friend. Did that sound defensive? Anyway, he’s my oldest brother and ribbing me is part of his job.
At home, I stash the sushi in the fridge and glance at the clock. If things go bust with Rick tonight, Cris will have the finest sushi to ever touch her tongue. Nate doesn’t fuck around when he puts businesses in his live-work facilities. They are top-notch or bust. Probably because the big bastard likes to eat. I’m grateful to any restaurant making amazing food because I also like to eat. And I really don’t like to cook.
At my countertop, I drum my fingers on the surface and consider the clock on the microwave. Six thirty. I wonder how her date is going. If he picked her up or she met him there. If they are laughing over a glass of wine, or she’s fretting about how long she should stay to be polite before leaving and coming to me.
My mouth shifts into a sly smile. Before I know it, I’m hoping she has a reason to run to me from her (likely shitty) date. Not that I want Cris to fail, but honestly, like one of these chuckleheads could be good enough for her? Highly doubtful.
Then another thought hits. What if the date’s going well?
What if she’s touching his arm and telling him how much she enjoys talking to him? I saw a photo of the guy and even I can admit he’s not unattractive. Unbidden, a vision of them at a candlelit dinner pops into my head. What if they finish off a bottle of wine and then order a second, lingering over crème brûlée? What if they leave the restaurant hand in hand, her rosy-cheeked and doing that cute eyelash-batting thing she does, while he slides an expectant, feral gaze down her body…
Wow. That got dark.
I stop drumming my fingers and stand. I’ll reroute my nervous energy and grab a workout and a shower. Or maybe a swim and then a shower. I debate for a few moments before deciding a swim would feel better. It’s cool-ish outside but the pool is heated. And concentrating on laps will quiet my lizard brain.
Anything to keep from imagining what might happen if the next few hours pass and I end up eating sushi for two alone in my kitchen.
Two and a half hours later, I’ve swum, showered, and returned to eyeing the clock. I poured myself a glass of wine a few minutes ago, having given up on Cris showing. I’m guessing her date went well. I resisted texting her for a status update.
Barely.
But then her telltale knock comes—three in quick succession. I race to the door trying not to look like I’m racing for the door.
“Hey.” I sound a little out of breath. I check her person for signs she’s been kissed within an inch of her life—or closer—but her curls are un-mussed, her lipstick on, and her black dress pants and flowy red shirt are in pristine condition. There are no wrinkles suggesting the outfit was recently plucked off the floor, which is a big fucking relief. I’m not ready for that discussion. (If ever.)
“Hey,” she says, her tone muted. I love that her tone is