I walked away from Alex, through the crush, and back to the bar. Alex followed. I sensed his intense ferocity and something else, knew he was angry. A shiver raced down my spine and the urge to flee was both surprising and disorienting.

I signaled for George the tattooed bartender to bring me my coat. Alex followed, and reached for my hand as we waited. I allowed him to hold it in his firm grip, though. I didn’t look at him because I was aggravated and irritable, and my mind was a tornado of mixed emotions.

I also didn’t look at him because I felt his anger rising around me like a tsunami.

Once outside he tried to tuck me into my normal place under his arm, but I pulled away from him and stuffed my hands in my pockets.

I wasn’t trying to hurt him or brush him off. I was just all wound up and couldn’t count on him for relief. I was on my own, and his touch made me feel lonely and frustrated.

After two blocks of walking side by side and not touching, speaking, or looking at him, Alex grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into a dark alley. Finding shadowy places was definitely a talent of his.

He backed me against the wall, held my gaze with his, but let go of my arm. His eyes were nearly black with just the barest flicker of light visible, a lightning flash against indigo.

“I don’t understand. I thought you wanted me.” He wasn’t touching me, didn’t reach for me, but his words and the tone of his voice physically tore at an indecipherable something. I felt pain in my lower belly and a crack in my heart. He was hot with barely suppressed anger; I felt it radiate from him like a fire.

“Alex….” I inhaled, exhaled, swallowed, and balled my hands into fists. “I do want you.”

“Then why…?”

“Because I can’t have you!” I yelled. It was a loony-bin reaction and extremely indiscrete. But there it was.

His eyes bounced between mine, and something in him shifted, gentled. Alex opened his mouth to speak, but nothing emerged—no assurances, no words of comfort—nothing.

I blinked at him and waited. After a tense moment, I rolled my eyes and hurried back to the sidewalk. His footfalls echoed mine the remainder of the walk home.

By the time we arrived at my apartment I’d cooled down enough to feel some contrition and ridiculousness at my behavior.

Part of me whined that I couldn’t help it; I wanted him, all of him. Yet, he continued to withhold both his body and his past from me. I felt dirty-deed disenfranchised.

My reasonable part, the voice that was typically loudest, reminded me that we’d been together a short time. Our first date, the Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me date, was just over a month ago. I had no business becoming hysterical and half crazed with the needy girl feels. I required a reality check, made out in the dollar amount of stop being such a whiny wanker and use a vibrator.

Before I reached the steps to the building, I spun on him. My intent was to apologize. Maybe I was the queen of mixed signals. Or maybe I’d allowed my hormones too much control over my actions.

He didn’t flinch or retreat or stop at my sudden movement. Instead, he stepped forward and caught me in his arms. Then he kissed me before I could say I was sorry. It was heated and passionate and lovely. His hands were everywhere, and so were mine. I was starving for him.

I felt his frustration and his need, a mirror of my own, and it was a relief. I was relieved to know that I wasn’t alone in my frustrations. I reminded myself that we were in this together. All his reasons for waiting were good ones. I could relax and stop pressuring him. I could enjoy the moments for what they were, not what I wished them to be.

We both relaxed into each other, into the kiss. When our lips parted, I smiled. Yes, it was bittersweet, it wasn’t perfect, and it left me wanting more.

But it was also beautiful, mesmerizing, and surprising. It lifted my heart to my throat and was the closest I’d ever come to the feeling of flying.

CHAPTER 20

Tuesday’s Horoscope: An offer of help today comes from an unlikely source. Don’t be surprised if this person’s assistance comes with a price tag down the road.

I felt morose; morose like Eeyore. Days between dates with Alex were becoming much more difficult than I’d anticipated. In fact, I’d finally gone furniture shopping with Devon—one of my many platonic male friends—on Monday, and practically yelled at him when he didn’t like the red couch I suggested.

Ah, mood swings. Thank you, female endocrine system.

At present, I was situated on one end of a big, fancy, cushy, delicious leather couch at Elizabeth and Nico’s apartment. I hid behind my third glass of red wine and only half listened to the conversation going on around me. I had a sexy beast of a boyfriend, and I wasn’t getting any knicker action. Life was not good. Life was depressing and sexless.

However, being with Alex, talking to Alex, arguing with Alex, learning from Alex, kissing Alex was good.

It was maddening and wonderful at once.

Therefore, life was good. Life was good because of high flying zingy kisses and sweet, funny, smart Alex conversations.

I was all muddled.

The conversation in my brain yielded a sigh, and I glanced at my work in progress; I was working on the left-hand mitten for Alex’s man-knits set. Specifically, I was knitting the thumb. I would give it to him soon and force him to wear it.

I didn’t want him to be cold anymore. I wanted him to be warm, all the time.

Then I’d force him to tell me where he went on Sundays. Then I’d force him to tell me about his past. Then I’d force myself on him….

Well, not really. I’d make him want me to force myself on him.

A knock on the door roused the group from their discussion and me from my meanderings. Elizabeth stood to answer it, and I caught the tail end of Ashley’s sentence.

“Of course, maybe he’s into getting tied up and squealing like a pig. If that’s the case, then count me out.”

Just as she finished, and a few of my friends asked for more details about the squealing-like-a-pig part, Quinn—Janie’s husband—strolled into the room.

He was followed by Elizabeth. As usual, she appeared to be less than pleased by his appearance.

“Janie, McHotpants is here.” Elizabeth breezed past him and reclaimed her spot on the big, overstuffed, welcoming leather couch that spanned the length of the room. She snuggled against her husband as if he was a pillow.

Ugh. They were too cute, and they probably had sex with each other. Maybe they would have sex tonight. I hated them and their well-satisfied genitalia.

Where Janie and Quinn’s penthouse was modern and sterile, Elizabeth and Nico’s was warm, cluttered, and comfy. The dichotomy was fascinating to me. Both apartments were exactly the same in layout and size, but they looked entirely different.

Quinn—or, our old nickname for him, McHotpants—hovered at the entrance to the room. He nodded once at Nico, then his cold glare followed Elizabeth as she claimed her seat. They shared a stare of mutual dislike that was quickly eclipsed by Janie standing from a comfy chair and stepping between them, shining light on the shadows of their showdown.

The change, in both Quinn as he looked at Janie, and in Elizabeth as she watched them together, was staggering.

He looked like a different person when he was with Janie. His features softened, and he reached for her as if he couldn’t stand to be in the same room with her and not touch her.

It made me sigh. There would be lots of sighing tonight, apparently.

They shared a private conversation at the edge of the room, which we all tried our best to ignore, and I turned my attention to Elizabeth.

She snuck glances at them, her expression warming with approval. It was clear that—though Elizabeth was no fan of Quinn on his own—she thoroughly approved of Quinn plus Janie.

Quinn’s entrance made very little impact on the rest of the group; at this point, we were all used to his random arrivals during our Tuesday meetup. He didn’t usually stay long and very rarely offered any of us more than a nod in greeting.

Therefore, the conversation restarted where it had been abandoned.

“He told you this? That he likes to be tied up and squeal like a pig?” Nico prompted Ashley to clarify.

Ashley nodded. “Yes, the pervert. You can use it for your standup routine if you like. I don’t care if he does look like he’s carved out of cream cheese, I am not into that bedroom dominance stuff.”

Elizabeth chuckled. “Getting tied up can be fun.” This comment earned her a heated and wicked glance from her husband.

“I agree.” Fiona nodded.

Kat and I shared a wide-eyed look, which earned us an incredulous glare from Fiona. “What? You don’t think married people with kids can be kinky in the bedroom?”

I held my hands up. “I didn’t say anything.”

Janie, her conversation with Quinn apparently at an end, walked back to her seat and picked up her crochet work in progress. Other than Nico, she was the only crocheter in our group, which somehow made a lot of sense.

“I agree,” she said.

Marie turned to Janie, glanced at Ashley, then back at Janie. “You agree with what?”

“Getting tied up is fun. You should try it, Ashley. Just make sure you don’t use hemp ropes. They leave marks.”

Mouths dropped across the room, and all eyes turned to Quinn, who was still standing in the entryway.