I can tell that they weren’t lying to me. There’s definitely nothing between them.
“I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” I say, and tilt myself off the chair. I float rather than walk toward the back hallway to the restrooms.
When I’m done, I inspect myself in the mirror. I’m not drunk, not yet, but I’m definitely on the road there. I’m right at that alcohol crossroads where if I don’t have anything else to drink I’ll sober right up, but if I have another I might become really and truly plastered. I should probably leave now, before I have another drink and embarrass myself in front of Tommy and ruin any chance I have to use his connections and promise of a recommendation.
My phone buzzes, and I expect to see a text from Chloe demanding updates, but instead it’s another text from Hollywood Gossip, asking if I have anything to share with them about Drew and reminding me that they pay for tips.
“Not now, Steve!” I mutter, shoving my phone back in my bag. If this is annoying for me, I can’t even imagine how terrible it must be for Drew.
I pat my fingertips under my eyes, cleaning up my smeared eyeliner, and dab on the tiniest bit more lipstick. Satisfied, I turn to leave and open the door just as Drew turns the corner into the hallway.
A very large part of me wants to turn around and run back into the bathroom, but I’m trying to act like an adult here, and part of that involves not hiding in public restrooms.
“Oh,” I say, brushing my hair out of my face. “Hello.”
“I almost punched Brody earlier,” he says, as if we’re in the middle of a conversation.
It’s quieter back in this hallway, so I can hear him even before he slowly takes a few steps toward me.
“Why?” I ask, flashing back to that weird moment when we first showed up.
“Because I thought you came here together,” he says, a self-deprecating smile on his face. “You guys walked in, his hand was on you, and even though I’m a modern guy and my parents raised me to be a feminist, it activated this caveman part of my brain.”
“He was only being friendly,” I say. “Trust me, I’ve lived in a world full of pervs for a long time, and I know when someone’s being a creep.”
Drew holds up a hand. “I know. I know. And it’s not like you have to explain anything or defend yourself to me. I’m not even the type of guy who gets into fights—unless it’s in a movie—but in that second, I could’ve punched him in the face.”
I laugh. “You would’ve destroyed him. I mean, look at you.”
And then I do look at him. He’s wearing this gray, long-sleeved thermal that clings to his chest in a way that is, frankly, obscene, and I’m struck by the desire to reach out and rub my hands across his torso. I shake my head quickly.
Drew leans down. He’s much closer to me than he should be. “I shouldn’t have worried. Brody knows about us.”
My mouth drops open. “Knows what about us?”
“That we’re friends,” Drew says, his voice low in an almost Bill-Pullman-in-While-You-Were-Sleeping growl. “Very, very good friends.”
Someone walks past us, headed to the men’s room, and Drew scoots even closer to me to let the man pass. I force myself to keep my eyes on his, to not let my gaze stray down to his lips or his chest or his anything else.
“I’m glad you didn’t come here with Brody,” Drew says, never taking his eyes off mine. I can hear all the sounds from the bar, the laughs and shouts and clinks. I swallow, hard.
The dude who went into the bathroom comes out and brushes past us, and Drew takes the opportunity to get even closer to me, so that our bodies are now fully touching.
“I’m fairly certain that guy didn’t even wash his hands,” I whisper, which isn’t the sexiest thing to whisper in this circumstance, but I’m not trying to be sexy here. Am I?
I gasp when he reaches out to touch my hand, and it’s easier for me to watch our hands than it is to look into his eyes. He circles his fingers on my palm, and even though we’re in a public place and I’m wearing the world’s largest, grayest sweater, it feels so outrageously sexual that I know I’m blushing.
“I know you said you wanted to be friends,” Drew says in a