chapter 2

“Any person who isn’t scared of spiders needs their head tested.”

“Just how drunk are you?”

“I’m not drunk,” he protests. “I’m… relaxed.”

“So relaxed you’ll be under the table in five minutes.”

Victoria rolls her eyes. “That’s my cue to retire for the night. See you guys tomorrow. Great party, Hux.”

“Yeah, thanks for all your hard work.”

“No worries. Goodnight.” She nods at me, then heads out of the door.

Huxley hooks his foot around the chair she’s vacated and pulls it toward us, and we both stretch out our legs and rest our feet on it. I glance across at him, unable to hide a smile. I’ve known this guy for ten years, and he never fails to make my heart skip a beat. He’s tall, and the fact that he took up the unusual sport of archery at school and has practiced it ever since is reflected in his well-muscled shoulders. He has brown hair that’s short up the back and longer on the top, and a tiny mole on his left cheekbone that always makes me want to kiss it. He’s gorgeous and irresistible, and he knows it, which makes it so much harder for me to keep him at arm’s length.

He catches the eye of Ian behind the bar, and holds up two fingers.

“Not for me,” I protest. “I should be heading off soon, too.”

“If you do that, I’ll be drinking alone, and that’s just sad.”

“What happened to Ms. Gold-lamé? I thought you’d have been balls-deep by now.”

He gives me an amused look. “She wasn’t my type.”

“She was breathing, wasn’t she?”

“Haha. She was a very sweet girl. But it’s Valentine’s Day. Why would I want to spend that with anyone else but you?”

I give him a wry smile. “Technically, it’s the fifteenth now.”

“Even so.” He grins at Ian as he brings two whiskies over. “Cheers.”

I sigh and take one of the glasses. “You’re trying to destroy my liver,” I grumble.

“I like you drunk,” Huxley says. “It files off your sharp edges.”

“What sharp edges? I don’t have any.”

He laughs. “Yeah, of course you don’t.” He holds up his glass, and I tap mine to it. “I always drink to world peace,” he says. It’s a quote From Groundhog Day.

“To world peace.”

We both have a mouthful of the amber liquid and sigh.

“Did you like your flowers?” he asks.

Today, he had three dozen pink roses delivered to my office at MediTech.

“They were absolutely gorgeous, and thank you very much. But you’ve got to stop doing that,” I scold.

“Buying my best friend presents?”

“Asking me out.”

“I told you ten years ago that I’d ask you out every month until you said yes.”

“You did,” I murmur, remembering the moment well. Unfortunately, he’d already broken my heart by then, which I’m sure he knows, although we’ve never openly discussed it. “I thought you’d get bored after the first four or five times I turned you down.”

“Nope,” he says cheerfully. He just sips his drink, his gorgeous light-gray eyes on mine. Then, lowering his glass, he says, mischievously, “Go on a date with me.”

“No,” I admonish. “Stop it.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re best friends, and I don’t want to spoil that.”

“Friends to lovers? Isn’t that the best romance trope?”

“Hux…”

“How about friends with benefits?”

“Jesus.”

“You’ve got to give me points for trying.”

“You don’t get any points. Stop nagging me.”

“It’s your fault for talking about battery-powered devices. It’s got me all hot and bothered.”

“Your temperature is permanently a hundred degrees. It’s your default setting.”

“Slanderous talk.”

“Yeah, like you hate the fact that you have a reputation in the bedroom,” I say sarcastically.

He studies me for a moment. “So do you,” he replies.

I stare at him, my jaw dropping, and sit up, livid. “The guys have been talking about me in the locker room? Hux, seriously?”

“So let me get this right—you’re indignant at the thought of us guys discussing what you’re like in bed, but I’m supposed to be flattered? Where does that fit into your definition of equality, exactly?”

I meet his eyes and slowly close my mouth. “All right,” I say sulkily. “Fair enough.”

He sips his whisky. “I am a little bit flattered,” he concedes, “but that’s not the point.”

I give a short laugh. “What do they say about me?”

“Nothing,” he states. “You know I’d shut down a conversation like that in seconds.”

Impishly, I say, “You’re not interested?”

“I don’t need to listen to gossip to know you’d be amazing in bed.”

I nudge him with my elbow. He nudges me back, harder, and I nearly fall off my chair. Luckily, he catches my arm and pulls me back up.

“Jesus,” I berate him, “don’t do that.”

He grins. “Maybe this should be your last whisky.”

“You think?”

I’m flustered. I can’t believe we’re talking about sex. The two of us have a strange relationship. With other women, Huxley prides himself on being a gentleman. He’s respectful and polite, and even when he likes a woman, he’ll never openly let the conversation turn sexual, not in front of me anyway.

Despite what happened ten years ago, or maybe because of that, we’ve become best friends. I think both of us feel safe within our relationship, knowing that despite his monthly enquiry, it won’t progress beyond platonic, and because of that we tease each other almost continuously. But although sometimes our teasing gets near the knuckle, we very rarely discuss intimate details about the bedroom. Maybe it’s because normally Mack or Victoria or Titus is around, and it’s unusual for us to be alone together.

“So tell me about my reputation,” he says. “I hope it doesn’t involve detailed discussion of length and girth.”

That makes me giggle. “Maybe.”

“Seriously?”

“A man who’s as generously endowed as you are—allegedly—shouldn’t worry too much about locker-room chat.”

“Jesus.”