Delayed Gratification Read online

  * * *

  Jason: Well, it’s midnight here, and I’ve had a few glasses of the good stuff.

  * * *

  Truly: What’s that? Whiskey?

  * * *

  Jason: My friends from uni plied me with champagne. I’m all pissed on bubbly. Shh. Don’t tell a soul.

  * * *

  Truly: You’re a lightweight when it comes to champagne. Your secret is safe with me.

  * * *

  Jason: Total champagne lightweight. Yes, I’m a little pissed.

  * * *

  Truly: I never tire of your British charm. Even when you use terms that sound like they should mean something else.

  * * *

  Jason: Oh, I have loads of charm. Also, that emoji was supposed to mean something.

  * * *

  Truly: The eggplant one? Yeah, I know what that means.

  * * *

  Jason: The lips one.

  * * *

  Truly: It means you have lips?

  * * *

  Jason: It means if you were here, I would kiss you because it’s New Year’s.

  * * *

  I pause in rearranging bottles behind the bar as I reread his note. Is he for real? Would he really kiss me?

  A ribbon of heat unfurls in me as I picture how his lips would coast over mine.

  * * *

  Truly: Is that so, Mr. Pissed on New Year’s?

  * * *

  Jason: I absolutely would. Quite a proper New Year’s kiss.

  * * *

  Truly: And what’s a proper New Year’s kiss?

  * * *

  Jason: Tongue. Lots and lots of tongue.

  * * *

  Truly: One would hope there would be tongue.

  * * *

  Jason: Actually, I’d brush my lips across yours and kiss you slow at first, then I’d explore your mouth, then I’d kiss you incredibly hard.

  * * *

  Truly: You are drunk.

  * * *

  Jason: I’m tipsy. But that really doesn’t change my desire to kiss you.

  My stomach flips. Tingles spread all over me. This is a whole new level of flirting. I want to tell him that the feeling is mutual. I want to let him know I think about kissing him on many nights, and many mornings too. Hell, I’m thinking about it now, and it’s doing all sorts of crazy things to my insides. But I also know, for a million reasons and for one really important one, I can’t go there. So I write back with a rather simple “Happy New Year,” and I put my phone away.

  When he strolls into Gin Joint two days later, I do a double-take. I point at his face. “You have a beard.”

  He checks over his shoulder as if there’s someone behind him, then he pats his cheeks, his jaw, his chin. “What? I do?”

  I laugh at his antics. “Yes. Your face is covered in the stuff. Just thought you should know.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing somebody is telling me the truth. I wondered why everyone was staring at me.” He scrubs a hand across his facial hair. “What do you think?”

  I think he looks crazy hot. Manly and sexy. Good enough to kiss. And I can’t entirely hold back. As I wipe down the counter, I give a little shrug. “You’re hot, furry, and unfunny.”

  He arches a brow, studying me. “Is that so? You think I’m hot?”

  I lean forward, dropping my voice. “I thought that had already been established.”

  “It bears reestablishing occasionally. Or, even better, frequently. Turns out I rather enjoy it.” He offers me his chin. “Want to touch?”

  Those flutters? They skate down my arms, sizzling and hot. Maybe because there’s a bar separating us, maybe because I’m confident this won’t go anywhere beyond this simple little contact, I reach across and stroke his beard. It feels good, it feels right . . . It feels like touching him is something I’m supposed to do, and that terrifies me more than I expect.

  I pull my hand away and busy myself sorting glasses behind the counter. “Why did you grow it?”

  “I’m doing a column on beard grooming. I need to test the products.”

  “Will you keep it?”

  “The products?”

  I shoot him a you can’t be serious look. “The beard, silly.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. You want to test it one more time and see what you think I should do?”

  It’s like we’re talking about something else, talking around what’s happening between us. “You know, just for the column and all,” he adds.

  “Just for the column,” I lie as I stroke it again, touching him for no one but myself.

  He watches me the whole time.

  Then he stops, grabs my hand, and holds my wrist. “I saw my texts from New Year’s. I’m so sorry.”

  I’m taken aback. I wasn’t expecting an apology. I honestly wasn’t expecting him to mention it at all. “Why are you sorry?”

  “I didn’t realize what I was doing.”

  “You didn’t mean it?” I ask, then I wish I could take it back because I sound like a needy girl who requires reassurance.

  He meets my gaze, his eyes blazing. “Oh, I meant it. I meant it so fucking much.”

  All the air rushes from my lungs. It seems impossible to breathe when he’s just put that out there. “You did?”

  “I just didn’t mean to say it all. To make you feel uncomfortable.”

  I shake my head. “They didn’t make me feel uncomfortable.”

  He studies me, peering closely at my face. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive, Jason.”

  He heaves a sigh. “Even so, I won’t do it again. I’ll stick to the plan.”

  “Is there one? A plan?”

  His eyes twinkle a little bit. “The plan we’ve always had. The plan where we don’t act on the instant attraction.”

  6

  Jason

  A week later, when we finish jujitsu class and step outside the studio, the evening has painted the sky with an orange glow. Snow has started to fall, white flakes floating down from the clouds.

  Truly sighs happily. “I love snow.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It always feels peaceful, but also possible. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Like anything can happen when it snows.”

  She meets my gaze, her eyes lighting up. “Yes. That’s exactly it. It feels like all sorts of incredible things can happen because of snow. Isn’t that strange?”

  I shake my head as we walk through the neighborhood. “No, I don’t think it’s strange. Snow is sort of inherently romantic. It makes it seem as if the city is slowing down. As if it’s draping a blanket over Manhattan and secrets are being told under it.”

  “I want to know Manhattan’s secrets,” she says wistfully.

  And I want to have secrets with her. I want to take her back to my place while it’s snowing and have all sorts of secrets that the weather will keep for us.

  “You know what I also like about snow?” she asks.

  “Tell me.”

  “Snowboarding. Weren’t we going to go? Do you want to get out of the city this weekend?”

  “Do I ever.”

  “We should invite Malone,” she suggests.

  But when she reaches out to him in our group chat, he says he can’t go because he’s busy.

  I’m more relieved than I thought possible. I don’t want to go snowboarding with Malone and Truly. I want to go snowboarding with her.

  So we make a plan to get away.

  As we drive toward the mountains in a rental car that weekend, we blast Rolling Stones and sing “Wild Horses” and then croon “Come Together” by the Beatles. We can’t resist belting out Eric Clapton’s “Layla” either.

  “Nothing is better than singing classic rock with you. Also, you get major points for having top-notch taste in music,” I say as we near the ski resort.

  She blows on her fingernails then rubs them against her chest. “I do have most excellent taste.”

  “If
you had said you liked Ed Sheeran or Coldplay, I’d have had second thoughts about our friendship.”

  Her eyes go wide and playful. “News flash. I do like Ed Sheeran.”

  I cringe as if she’s said the worst thing in the world, because she kind of did. “I’m pretending you didn’t just say that.”

  She shrugs. “I love Ed.”

  I shake my head adamantly. “Nope. You don’t. You are a woman of the finest taste.”

  She shoots me a coy look. “I do have excellent taste.”

  And right now, I wish she’d act on that taste when it comes to the guy she’s snowboarding with.

  Except that can’t happen.

  When we hit the slopes, I swear we’re a million miles away.

  We spend the day zipping up the chair lift and then zooming down the hills, hopped up on adrenaline and by the possibility that snow brings.

  After the final run, there’s no way we can drive back to New York City.

  As we head into the lodge, she says, “I guess we should stay the night.”

  “We should.”

  We reserve two rooms, and once we meet for dinner, it feels like everything’s about to change.

  7

  Jason

  It’s just dinner.

  Steak and salad.

  Risotto and peas.

  It’s just what we do to feed ourselves, because we’re hungry after a day on the slopes.

  That’s all. It shouldn’t feel like a dinner date. It doesn’t feel like a dinner date. Or so I tell myself as I button my long-sleeved shirt then tuck it into my jeans.

  We have separate rooms, and I’m simply going down to meet a friend for dinner at the lodge. The cozy mountain lodge. The romantic, cozy mountain lodge with fireplaces everywhere.

  Fucking hell.

  As I walk downstairs from my second-floor room, I imagine I have blinders on, ignoring all these fireplaces. Besides, what’s so romantic about fireplaces anyway? They’re sooty and ashy, and they require a lot of upkeep. They make a place so damn hot that you’re sweating, and you have to take off your clothes.

  Oh.

  Yeah.

  That.

  It would be ridiculously fucking sexy if Truly took off her clothes because she was too hot.

  I better not think about that at all. That’s precisely why I can’t go there. She’s just one of the guys.

  I repeat this mantra over and over.

  Just one of the guys, just one of the guys, just one of the guys.

  But when she heads down the stairs wearing jeans, boots, and a bulky fisherman’s sweater, I gesture to the offending attire. “Would you like me to burn that sweater before or after dinner?”

  With wide eyes, she plucks at the material. “What’s wrong with my sweater?”

  I tap my chin. “Hmm, where to start? It’s bulky, for one.”

  She waves toward the windows, which are edged with frost. “It’s cold outside.”

  “It’s shapeless.”

  She shrugs. “So? Do you want me to show you my shape?”

  Don’t answer that.

  “It’s . . . well. Actually . . .” I slow my mouth down, because the sweater is perfect. It’s one of the least sexy things I’ve ever seen. “You’re just one of the guys in that sweater.”

  She gives me a strange, not-quite smile. “Gee, that’s what I’ve always wanted to be.” But then it turns to a full grin. “Actually, it’s good if you think of me as just one of the guys. We can keep focusing on the friendship.”

  Instead of on my texts about kissing her.

  We head into the restaurant, and the hostess seats us then hands us the menus. Candles flicker, so I continue my efforts to dismiss all notions of romance. “Why are candles romantic? They’re just fire hazards, if you think about it.”

  See? I’m all about friendship.

  She pats my arm. “Don’t worry, Jason. I have on the ugly sweater, and we have fire hazards. There’s not a chance this could be construed as romantic. But while we’re discussing clothes that should be burned, can we talk about that gray T-shirt of yours? The one with the holes in it?”

  I shoot her an inquisitive look. “I don’t own a holey shirt.”

  Her blue eyes twinkle. “Oh, but you do.”

  I shake my head. “No, I don’t.”

  She nods again. “You do. You wore it to spin class.”

  “I did?”

  Before she can respond, the waiter arrives and asks for our order. I opt for chicken, and she chooses pasta. And when he walks away, I arch a brow. “Where were the alleged holes in this T-shirt?”

  She pats my biceps. “Right here.”

  I lift a brow. “You were checking out my biceps. Admit it. You love my arms,” I say, then curse myself. That’s not guy-talk.

  She rolls her eyes. “I was not.”

  I flex my muscles, giving myself a break for a moment. “See? Pretty damn good, aren’t they?”

  She reaches out her hand and squeezes. “Yes, your arms are fabulous. Besides, why are you so upset about your holey shirt? You attacked my bulky sweater. I’ll attack your shirt.”

  “Fair play,” I say, leaning back in the chair, thoroughly enjoying our banter. I simply won’t make any more flirty remarks, nor any kissing ones. No way. No how. I’ve got this.

  We chat some more, about clothes that ought to be burned and food we don’t think should exist and mountains we want to snowboard on, and it’s friendly, with only a little bit of flirtation thrown in. Because I can’t help myself.

  And that seems to be par for the course with us.

  Just because I sent those texts doesn’t mean I’ll backslide again.

  Even though we’re at this supposedly romantic lodge.

  But I’m not worried. I haven’t even had anything to drink, and I keep it that way all through dinner.

  When the meal ends, I pay the bill, and Truly waves her hand in front of her face, fanning herself. “It’s soooo hot. These fireplaces are pretty damn strong.”

  Uh-oh.

  She reaches down and tugs off her sweater. I close my eyes for a second, hoping she’s not wearing something ridiculously sexy like a camisole. Do women even wear camisoles under bulky fisherman sweaters? I don’t know. If they don’t, maybe they should. Pretty women should just wear camisoles all the time.

  I open my eyes as she tugs her sweater over her head.

  My jaw falls open. She’s wearing . . . my holey gray T-shirt. I point that out, surprised. “You have on my T-shirt.”

  She looks down at the material. “Oh, this old thing? I was just going to burn it later.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You’ll do no such thing. That’s a very special T-shirt.”

  “Why is it such a special T-shirt? It’s full of holes.”

  “Well, why are you wearing it, then?”

  “Because you left it at my house after we did the spin class.”

  “And you held on to it. Admit it, you haven’t even washed it.”

  “Actually, I did wash it before this trip, and I brought it here to give back to you. And I thought it would be kind of funny to wear to dinner. But I was cold, so I put on the sweater. And now that you’ve said you hate my sweater, maybe I should just keep your shirt.”

  “Well, it does look fucking foxy on you,” I say, and yep, there’s some quicksand.

  “You think it looks foxy on me?” she asks as we exit the restaurant and head for the stairs.

  I eye her in her jeans, her boots, and my T-shirt, which only has one little hole in the arm. “Yeah,” I say, tracing the hole, touching a sliver of her skin. Seems my shoe is grazing that slope. “There’s just something incredibly sexy when a woman wears a man’s clothes.”

  She looks at me. “Why is that?”

  And here I go, one foot leaving solid ground. “I think it’s something about marking a woman. I guess it makes it feel like . . .” I stop myself. Am I really going to go here? Am I really going to say this?

  Evidentl
y I’m sliding all the way. “It makes me feel like you’re mine. It makes it look like you tugged that on after I fucked you.”

  Apparently I don’t need champagne to loosen my lips.

  She stops at the top of the steps. “So does this T-shirt make something a foregone conclusion, then?”

  I stare at her, at this woman I’ve been wildly attracted to since I met her, at this woman who’s become my great friend and who is my best friend’s sister.

  But in this moment, she’s none of those things. She’s the woman I want to mark. She’s the woman I want to make mine. She’s the woman who I want to be wearing my clothes right after I fuck her.

  I reach for the hem of the shirt, tug her close, and say, “Yeah, I hope it does.” She’s inches from me, and this is the moment of truth. The moment before. We stare at each other, hovering on that edge where we can still step back and return to being friends.

  She’s just one of the guys, she’s just one of the guys, she’s just one of the guys.

  But she’s not one of the guys. She’s the woman I desperately want.

  One more tug, and then she steps forward into my arms and seals her lips to mine.

  It’s instant—I’m hotter than the fireplace. Flames flicker across my skin, blazing through my body. I slide a hand into her hair, bring her even closer, and slam my mouth to hers, kissing her fiercely, kissing her ferociously. I kiss her like it’s the thing I’ve wanted to do for years, because it is.