But we don’t usually do it at my place, alone, where I have no roommate or neighbors on the other side of the wall. We have on occasion, sure, but not after I stroked her hair in the bar and spent the night on her couch. Not after she’s sketched me and my dick.

I’m a bubbling mix of unsure and electrified when I hit send on my end, Sure.

I’M ON THE patio basting the ribs on the barbecue when I hear Lola’s voice carry down the hall.

“I’m here!”

The front door closes. There’s the sound of her shoes hitting the floor as she kicks them off just inside, bare feet making their way across the room, and the ring of keys as she hangs them on the kitchen hook next to mine.

It’s such a domestic habit, and I’m unprepared for the strange sensation that rolls through my stomach. With a nervous glance toward the house, I close the barbie through a cloud of charcoal-scented smoke and try to remind myself that I’m Lola’s friend. Nothing has changed, not really.

When I step inside, she looks up at the sound of the screen door and smiles. “Brought some stuff,” she says, and nods to a pile of grocery sacks covering the counter.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell her, closing the door with a wave behind me. “Ribs are almost done, was just about to take them off.”

She holds up two pints of ice cream. “Well now we have dessert, too.” Rocky Road and strawberry. Our favorites.

My chest feels tight and uncomfortable, as I cross to the cupboard and pull out a platter. The calm distance is unraveling, and I can sense the impending explosion. I just have no idea what shape it will take.

Lola putters around behind me, and when she walks over to the freezer to put everything away, I absolutely don’t look at her arse.

THE EXPERIENCE THROUGHOUT dinner puts me as close to torture as I’ve ever been. It never occurred to me that serving Lola barbecued ribs might have been a bad idea, and that for what watching her eat them does to me I might as well have handed her a banana, or reached across the table and had her suck my finger.

And so I spend a good part of the meal half-hard—again—and shifting in my seat as Lola sits across from me, working through some thoughts on her new book, and completely oblivious to my struggle. She’s clearly avoiding thinking about Austin’s ideas for Razor Fish, and I want to give her useful feedback, but it takes superhuman strength to drag my eyes from her mouth while she licks sauce from her fingertips.

Finally I give up, claiming a need to use the bathroom so I can get some air. I splash water on my face and give myself a long, hard look in the mirror.

This is exactly why I didn’t let things go too far between us in Vegas. Why—as much as I wanted to punch myself in the face at the time—I turned down her invitation to join her in a hotel room. Lola is smart and beautiful, and, knowing we were going to be living in the same city and I would really, really want to be her friend, I didn’t want to ruin things or make them weird by fucking her.

But things are definitely weird now.

We clean up dinner together, working side by side in companionable silence as we load the dishwasher and wipe the counters. She isn’t talking, but there’s a determination in the set of her jaw that says she’s thinking, plotting. It’s an expression I’m familiar with, though it seems different tonight. I’m not sure why but my stomach twists with nerves as the number of things keeping us in the kitchen and away from the comfortable sofa in my dark living room dwindles down to nothing.

What is she planning?

I tell her to go ahead and pick out a movie, and I watch from my spot near the stove as she scrolls through the choices on my iPad, her mouth turned down into a frown until she finds exactly what she wants.

“Point Break?” she says.

“Go for it.”

Bank robbery and explosions, guns and testosterone? Exactly what I need to keep my eyes and hands to themselves.

I start the dishwasher while Lola heads into the other room. Grabbing the popcorn and a couple of beers from the fridge, I flip off the light with my elbow.

The previews are playing as I get to the living room. Both lamps have been dimmed, and the couch is huge, big enough for at least four grown adults. Lola is sitting squarely in the middle.

Okay . . .

“Comfortable?”

She pats the spot next to her. “Almost.”

My heart slowly melts into my gut.

I take a seat and after a moment of hesitation, she crowds a bit closer, tucking herself neatly into my side.

I go still, holding my breath before exhaling and molding into the shape of her against me.

Lola and I have always had what Finn and Ansel call a touchy relationship—lots of playful shoves, pinky swears, and high-fives—but cuddling on the couch? Definitely new.

“Do you want me to grab the ice cream?” Lola says, lifting her chin to look up at me.

I imagine her this close, eating ice cream from the carton and licking melted strawberry from the spoon.

That would be fucking catastrophic.

“In a while,” I say, and she nods, taking the popcorn and stretching her legs out in front of her. I think I hear her exhale in one long, calming breath.

She’s wearing a soft gray T-shirt that slopes off one perfect shoulder, a pair of black skinny jeans, and her bare feet rest next to mine on the coffee table. Lola is small-boned but tall, with curves that make my mouth water. I’d never describe her as delicate—and that may be primarily because she exudes a certain steely aura—but I’m so much bigger than she is, so much longer, and I’ve never been more aware of it than I am right this very moment.

Picking up her hand, I place it over mine, palm to palm. “You’re so small.”

Lola laughs, looking down at our hands. “I am not, you’re just a giant. Is that how all men are made in Australia?” She tilts her face up to mine. “I might have to plan a visit and go hunting.”

“You’re cheeky tonight,” I say, reaching with my free hand for the bowl of popcorn in her lap, and shift my eyes to the television.

But I can feel the way her eyes linger on me, and can’t resist looking back at her face. We’re so close, shoulder to shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye I catch the jerking rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.

“Still picturing me in my boxers?” I whisper.

“Is it that obvious?” she says. There’s a hint of a smirk on her lips, but her cheeks grow warm and pink. She clears her throat.

“Pipe down and watch the movie,” I tease dryly, feeling my cock tighten in my jeans. “You’ve already made me miss the first ten minutes—you know, where we really get into the nuances of Keanu’s excellent characterization.”

“I can tell how upset you are,” she says with a small laugh and sits up. Each point of contact we just shared cools and I use every ounce of my mental Jedi skills to wordlessly coerce her to sit back close again and touch me.

My skills are apparently far more powerful than I imagined because, after she takes a long pull from her bottle, she sets it on the table in front of us and swings her legs onto the couch so she’s lying down.

With her head in my lap.

I take a deep breath and keep my eyes on the screen, waiting with fire in my veins while she shifts around and makes herself comfortable.

After a moment she’s settled in and looks up at me with smiling eyes. “You’re so comfy. Is this”—she swallows—“is this okay?”

“Pretty comfy yourself,” I say, and try to set the bowl on her face, anything to keep my focus off the fact that her head is practically on top of my dick. Her ear is almost pressed against it.

She has to realize what she’s doing to me.

“Hey,” she says, stealing the bowl away from me. “Be nice or I’ll tell Harlow.”