asked, continuing their earlier conversation.
“I think so. I don’t know. He refuses to talk to me about it. Always has.”
She made a commiserating noise. “That puts you in a terrible position.”
It was strange, to talk to someone about this. Someone on his side, who could see things more objectively than his family could.
It was nice, actually.
He busied himself with removing his shoes. “It does.” It made him resent his grandfather even more.
“Do you think he’ll actually disown you?”
Nausea churned. He nodded once, not eager to discuss that prospect.
She seemed to sense he was done talking. “Do you want wine?”
“I—yes.” That was a good idea. They’d occasionally shared a glass of wine together. The wine would remind them of what good friends they were.
And then he’d . . . apologize.
Bikram’s voice rang in his head. Tell her.
Either way, they could do with alcohol.
He accepted the glass of wine she handed him and followed her to the living room. She dropped down onto the couch. After a moment’s hesitation, he sat down next to her.
He’d turned on the Tiffany lamp next to the couch, and she’d done the same with the overhead light. The dancing colors warred with the harsh light. Her sketch pad was spread out over the desk in the corner. She wasn’t a good artist, even she admitted that, but she stuck at it.
She stuck at a lot of things. It was one of the bajillion things he admired about her.
She took a sip of her wine. Her face was so . . . peaceful, in a way he didn’t usually see it at home when she was focused on a project or work. Except when she was cooking.
A sharp crack came from outside, and the peace was disturbed. She jumped. He jumped, too, but then relaxed. “It was a branch,” he said.
Her shoulders slowly lowered from her ears. “Oh. Right. If it was a person, the guard outside would have notified you, right?”
“Yes.” Lorne’s people were discreet, but he trusted them to show up when need be.
They sat in silence for a while. There were a million things they could talk about or do. They could check up on the hashtag or he could contact Lorne, or they could talk about how his grandfather might really never speak to him again. But that would mean the real world intruding on their peace. And that was the last thing he wanted.
What do you want?
He moved his hand so it lay next to hers, his pinkie brushing her skin.
HE WAS TOUCHING her. It was so small and almost something Katrina could explain away as an accidental brush.
Zing.
He moved his finger against hers.
Take up space.
He inhaled deeply. “Katrina—”
“I liked kissing you. I’ve been wanting to do it for a while.”
He froze.
Though her heart sank in dread, she continued. Taking up space. “It seems that I have developed feelings for you at some point. I thought I could shove them away. Swipe them away with someone else. But I don’t actually know if I can re-create what I feel for you with someone else. Anyway, um, I am sorry I didn’t ask you first and sprang that kiss on you.” She shut her mouth to stop the babble of words.
Jas set down his glass on the coffee table. “Katrina . . . I kissed you.”
“No. I kissed you. Because I wanted to.”
“No, I kissed you.”
What was he talking about. “I’m pretty sure it was me who was the kisser, and you, who was the kiss-ee.”
His brow furrowed. “Do you remember how much we both leaned in?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Nothing. Moral of the story, I wanted to kiss you, as well.”
Her lips formed an O. “I see.”
His eyes crinkled. “Do you?”
“No.”
He looked like he wanted to say something more, but then he swayed forward, bridging the gap between them more than halfway. Then he waited.
It took her about half a second to close that gap.
The first brush of his lips against hers came as such a shock she jumped, though she’d wanted it.
His touch was soft and gentle, his lips exploring. He didn’t suffocate her and for that she was grateful—this was too new to risk feeling like her air was being cut off.
Her head spun. Part of her brain tried to comprehend that this was Jas she was kissing. Jas, her longtime friend. One didn’t kiss platonic friends, but here she was wrapping her arms around his neck and crawling closer.
Katrina had wanted sex, but in an abstract