A Toast to the Good Times Read online

  “I like it.”

  I stick my hands in my pockets and try to figure out why I feel all keyed up looking at Mila.

  It’s just a dress. How can it change the way she looks so completely?

  I clear my throat again when my brain starts going to what she looks like under the dress. “Let me know what I should chip in. I mean, I think we should keep her around, right? I kinda like being able to see the floor.”

  Mila waves her hand and passes me a mug, turning to get whipped cream from the fridge. She shakes it and sprays a huge amount on my cocoa.

  “Let me pay for it. I’m glad to help her out, you know. Um, are you okay?”

  I take the mug, but I’m staring at the whipped cream container in her hand and thinking about…Mila.

  And whipped cream.

  And that red dress.

  And getting her out of it.

  What the hell is going on in my brain? Maybe it’s the apartment. I feel completely out of place in my own space right now. Maybe the heavy pine-cleaner scent is screwing with my ability to think properly.

  “I’m fine. Uh…we have rum, right?” I put the mug down and go to the cabinet under the sink, looking at the smooth, gorgeous length of Mila’s legs while I do. Yeah, I definitely need a drink. I unscrew the rum and pour a generous shot or two into my mug and hers. “Let’s celebrate. Right? To friends and celebrating the holidays without all the damn stress. Cheers.” I bump my overfull mug against hers as gently as I can, but my hand is a little shaky.

  “Cheers.” She takes a sip of her cocoa and coughs. “Whoa! Mmm. That’s good. Strong. No, wait, put those down! We are not eating out of takeout boxes, Landry. Sorry. It’s Christmas Eve. Well, Christmas Eve-Eve. Real plates and silverware, please.”

  I’d usually argue, but I feel weird with her tonight. I feel like she’s a powerful, sexy woman telling me what to do, and I’d better listen.

  I grab real, if mismatched, plates and we scoop the food onto them. It’s exactly the same scenario that we’ve been in a million times before, but it feels different. When I brush by her to open the cranberry sauce or slide by to get silverware, I feel a little rush.

  What the hell?

  It’s just a dress. It’s just Mila. Maybe if I tell myself that a few more times, the truth will actually make its way to my brain, because right now, my thoughts are elsewhere.

  I take another quick shot of rum directly from the bottle as I follow her way-too-distractingly sexy ass into the living room.

  She puts in the movie and plops on the couch, but, instead of the waft of dirty laundry and the chaos of our cluttered little living space, there’re all these softly flickering candles in this neat little room and Mila wrapped like the best possible Christmas gift in that damn red dress.

  When I find myself looking away from Jimmy Stewart and over at Mila’s cleavage for the hundredth time, I finally break down and snap a little.

  “You wanna change?”

  Her head whips up and she faces me, her mouth stuffed with turkey and mashed potatoes, her eyes wide and startled.

  Shit.

  Maybe that came out a little gruffer than I meant it to.

  “Um, okay?” Her entire face and voice twist into one huge question because I’m acting strange, antisocial, out of line.

  I attempt damage control.

  “I just mean…your friends bought that dress for your New Year’s party. And it would suck if it got food on it. Or whatever.”

  What am I talking about? Why does it matter what Mila wears or doesn’t?

  “Oh. Yeah. Duh.” She hops up and heads down the hall. “Good thinking!” she calls before she turns into her room. A few seconds go by. “Um, Landry?”

  “Yeah?” I gulp down some of the cocoa, wishing it was less chocolate and more rum.

  Way more rum.

  I need anything to take the edge off.

  “It’s got this zipper? In the back, I guess?”

  She sounds so confused. Has she never worn a fancy dress before? Not that I have, obviously. But I’ve helped my fair share of horny, dressed-up girls out of theirs.

  I go into her room and find her trying to hold the top of the zipper with one hand behind her neck while she curves the other arm up and under in an attempt to pull it down. But it’s not as easy as it looks.

  “Stop before you pull your back out.”

  I step just behind her and move her hands out of the way. She stands completely still. I grip the top of the zipper and drag it down, revealing a long column, just an inch or two wide, of soft skin from the top her spine all the way to the band of her sensible cotton underwear. She has a tattoo on the back of her neck. It says “Dwell in possibility” in swirling cursive.

  “I didn’t know you had a tattoo.” I also didn’t realize what a turn-on that little bit of ink would be. “Does it mean something?”

  She puts her hand up to the back of her neck. I can only see her profile, but her cheek is all pink. “It’s geeky. So geeky. It’s, um, it’s Emily Dickinson. She’s…I love her. I love her, um, poems.” The pink goes to a deeper red.

  “Not geeky,” I argue.

  It’s a lie. It’s geeky as hell. I’m not even sure who Emily Dickinson is. The chick in all white? The one who drowned herself? Didn’t two of them drown? I spent most of English class checking out Jenna Donovan in high school.

  I rip my eyes off of that geeky-but-hot-tattoo and look down as I finish pulling the zipper open, but I wind up uncovering another deceptively hot detail that brings out my dumbfounding Mila lust.

  Cotton underwear should definitely be a turnoff.

  Especially when they say ‘Team Darcy’ across the ass.

  There’s nerdy and then there’s just beyond all hope. But, despite every clear reason why I shouldn’t be, I find myself turned-on by them.

  And her.

  And I have to stop myself from kissing the back of her neck, right over that tattoo by that poet I probably never read.

  I’ve either had too much to drink already or not nearly enough.

  “There you go,” I say, backing out of her room as quickly as I can and heading to the kitchen and the liquor stash. I decide my issue is definitely that I had too little to drink, and I plan to solve that problem immediately.

  ***

  It’s a Wonderful Life is long over. Mila forced me to watch The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, mostly so she could point at the screen and laugh while expressing mock amazement over the fact that the Grinch and I were probably separated at birth. Now we’re watching A Christmas Story, and I feel like a bum and a traitor, because, in over two decades of holiday seasons, I’ve never once watched this movie before Christmas Eve and never even contemplated viewing it without my siblings.

  I’ve been taking a shot every time I have a shitty, guilt-filled thought, so I’m pretty fucking hammered. But, like any decent drunk, I realize there’s still more rum left, and I’m ready to finish it off.

  “You really don’t need anymore, Landry,” Mila says, jumping up and swiping the bottle of spiced rum from my hand, mid-pour. It splashes onto the freshly polished coffee table, and I momentarily debate licking up the droplets. But that’s just sad, right?

  “What’s it matter? I’m not going anywhere.” I stand on unsteady legs and the room tilts dangerously to one side.

  “Well, maybe not, but I need to get going soon and I’m not going to feel right about that if I leave you here, drunk and slobbering all over yourself.”

  “Fine.”

  I plop back onto the sofa. So what if I want to drink the next few days away? I hate how everyone is always trying to make the holidays into something they’re not.

  I reach for her, trying to take the bottle back, but Mila prances away with it.

  I mean to follow her ass, covered in flannel polka dot pajamas that really, really should be a turnoff but aren’t, with my eyes alone.

  But I find myself standing up again and heading after her, my shoulder smashing i
nto the wall as I try to keep pace with her. She heads straight for her bedroom, and, suddenly, the fact that I was trying to drown my thoughts of her is totally pointless, because she’s on her stomach, lying across her bed and reaching for the drawer of her nightstand.

  “What are you doing, Mila?”

  My words are caught in my throat. I shouldn’t be feeling like this, shouldn’t be in her room, too drunk to have much control over what I do next and just sober enough to know it’s probably going to be stupid.

  She pops back up, her eyes wide and excited. “Okay, I know we never agreed on it, and it’s no big deal or anything, but I got you something. Merry Christmas, Landry.”

  Maybe it’s all the rum and the funny, sappy movies, or maybe it’s the weirdly clean apartment that’s so much better than I gave it credit for, or maybe, just maybe, it’s her.

  Mila.

  Looking the same but different, like I’ve been squinting at her blurry form for months and only tonight got handed glasses that are the right prescription.

  Whatever it is, I feel…I feel like I better run away, fast.

  But I don’t.

  I take the box out of her hand and shake my head. “I feel like a dick. I didn’t get you anything. And you got me a gift and had the house cleaned—”

  “Forget it.” Her voice is cheerful, but her smile isn’t as full of giddiness as usual.

  Fuck.

  Why didn’t I just get her a damn present? I’m officially the biggest asshole who ever lived.

  “Listen, let’s just not—”

  Before I can undo all this awkwardness, or maybe throw it into an even more awkward frenzy, she wrinkles her nose and says, “Landry, please? Just open it.”

  I rip the paper off and there’s the Indian head belt buckle we talked about the first night I met her.

  Shit.

  “Mila…” I turn it over and chuckle. “This is seriously—”

  “Stupid.” She takes a deep breath and pushes her bangs out of her eyes. “I know. It’s childish. And kinda dumb. But remember that night we met? When you said you loved X-Men growing up, and your dad wanted you to take over the bar, and you always just wanted to be Wolverine instead? And I know you don’t want to talk about your dad or your family or the bar, but I just thought, you know, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want. Because you’re smart and amazing, and if you want to be Wolverine, be him. Be better because, I know this makes no sense, but you are, you know? You’re amazing. And I know this is random, like out of nowhere random, but, Landry, I’ve just wanted to say, needed to say—”

  It’s her eyes. I’ve never really noticed the color before. Pure green. Like looking through a wine bottle into the sun.

  Okay, not the most romantic observation, but I’m a damn bartender.

  Her eyes are so warm and kind and confident. Like she believes, really believes, that I’m the most amazing person who ever walked the earth.

  Or maybe I’m reading more into all of this.

  Maybe I’ve had too much rum.

  Maybe I’ve just had too much everything.

  In any case, I want her in my bed, and damn the consequences. This is a thousand times worse of an idea than sleeping with Lori would have been, but I don’t care. I just don’t care.

  And then I’m kissing her, unexpectedly.

  She was chattering, her words weaving in and out of my ears, and then the room went quiet. And I realized it was because my lips were on hers.

  She moaned, just this one little, tiny moan, and I had her on her back on her bed, my body pressed hard on hers. Months of living together, and I’d never once thought of kissing her, and now I find myself wondering why.

  Why didn’t it occur to me? Why didn’t I do this before, and all the time? Why were we ever in the same room and doing anything other than this?

  I run my hands over the fuzzy flannel of her ridiculous pajamas, and, underneath the distracting clothes, I can feel every curve like she was perfectly fitted for me. I love the way she stretches up toward my hands. I love the way she wraps her arms around my neck.

  Our kiss started pretty low-key, but the way her body is bucking against mine drives me into crazier territory. I open my mouth, run my tongue over her lips, press my hand through all her long, thick hair and pull her closer, tighter.

  I expect her to be fairly calm and maybe shy, but she bites at my bottom lip, presses her hands up and down my back and coils closer to me.

  “Landry,” she sighs.

  I love the sound of my name, floating off of her lips. I push her top up, slowly; up her chest, up over her head and go a little dizzy seeing the bright red flash of her silky little bra, which she never took off when she put on her pajamas.

  “I like this.” I run my fingers over the lace edges, just tracing the swell of her tit, and she sucks her breath in hard. I can hear my voice going places I don’t want it to go with Mila. I’m going to do that thing where I say whatever I need to say to get her to take off her—

  But she’s wiggled out of her pants before I can say anything else. I’ve got an eyeful of her silly Darcy underwear. Who the hell is Darcy? Maybe some sci-fi guy? Why am I thinking about this when I have Mila smiling up at me like I’m the answer to all her problems?

  I push everything out of my head and enjoy the fact that she’s one clasp and a good downward push away from being completely naked. I stroke her from her ribs down to her hips with the back of my fingers, making slow, careful circles on her skin.

  Her lips part and she closes her eyes, tilting her head back. All that dark hair falls in long, gorgeous waves, and I’m so hard, it’s painful. Over Mila. The combination of the rum in my veins and her exposed body makes me hungry for everything I haven’t had in so long: smooth skin, sexy curves, a sweet, ready woman in my bed.

  I kiss her neck and rub my thumbs over her hips. She moans and I pull my shirt off. Her skin is hot against mine, the smell of her perfume, something with vanilla in it, fills my lungs and makes me want to lick her.

  So I do.

  Over her collarbone, along the curve of her ear, just on the edge of her bottom lip, before she opens her lips, and I kiss her hard. I run my fingers along her thighs, ready to get rid of these last few items of clothing and lose track of everything shitty going on in my life right now.

  And then she giggles.

  A deep, throaty giggle that comes from somewhere low in her chest and totally pulverizes this sexy, seductress version of Mila the rum is telling me exists.

  That giggle reminds me that this is my roommate. My slightly dorky roommate, who might look like every one of my hottest fantasies when she puts on a tight dress and then peels it back off, but who I respect.

  Care about.

  And most importantly, have to live with once this stupid night is over.

  I pull back.

  She grabs my arms and presses her eyebrows together. “I’m sorry. My thighs are super ticklish. Did I ruin the mood?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard.

  “No. You are…” I pull my hands back and hold them out, just above her skin, and it’s total torture. “You are extremely sexy, Mila. Seriously. It’s just…you and me? I mean, you understand, right? It would be crazy. It makes no sense.”

  I’m trying to explain better, but she slides off my lap and kind of covers herself with her arms and hands.

  “Right. Okay. Me and you. We make no sense. Obviously make no sense.” She tries to laugh, but her utter humiliation makes it ragged and metallic. I reach a hand out and she flinches. “It’s fine. I’m fine. So stupid. This is…really stupid! I, uh, I think I’m pretty drunk. And you’re definitely drunk. Because you and me? Right. Nope. That’s just…really stupid.”

  She picks up her top and, instead of putting it on, she holds it tight to her chest. Her face is bright red, she won’t make eye-contact with me, and I’ve never felt like a bigger piece of shit than I do right at this minute.

  “Mila, please hear
me out—”

  “Landry!” Her voice bursts out, sharp and pleading at the same time. “It’s fine. Okay? It’s beyond fine. But, um, would you just get out? Please. Get out of my room.”

  Her lips tremble and she swallows hard. Her eyes look teary, and her knuckles, fisted over the fabric of her pajamas, are bone white.

  “If you just give me one—”

  “Now.” The word is tiny and desperate.

  So I get up and leave her room without looking back over my shoulder, no matter how badly I want to.

  I pick up my coat, my wallet, my phone, and head out the door, on foot. The icy wind bites through my clothes and slices to the bone. I’m glad for the jarring discomfort. I deserve way worse. Lots of pain, lots of suffering. There aren’t Arctic conditions cold enough to match the freezing, icy, empty echo in my chest. In the space where a normal guy would have some kind of a heart.

  Too bad I’m nothing but a freakish, heartless bastard.

  Chapter 3

  I push on the door of the bar with all of my weight, slamming into it with force that I should be careful about exerting while I’m this intoxicated, but it still won’t budge. The door has jammed like this since I bought my tiny dump of a bar last year.

  I’ve really got to get someone out here to fix the piece of crap.

  Or, just never close up the place.

  Right now, that’d suit me just fine.

  Except Mila once told me that twenty-four hour bars made her sad. That it was hard to believe that the people sitting on the stools at seven AM really had nowhere better to be. That there was no way no one was waiting for them at home.

  Silly, naive, Mila.

  Christ. Mila.

  I flip on the lights, and the familiar buzz of the old bulbs interrupts the quiet, but does little to brighten up the dark, wood-paneled room. It’s dim enough even with the lights on that my eyes don’t need to adjust, so I hustle over to the bar, grab a Collins glass and get to work on forgetting that red dress, those unbelievably hot, albeit nerdy as shit, panties and the way Mila’s lips curved into the saddest little frowny-cat frown when I kissed her and then left her hanging like the callous tool that I am.

  I toss a couple of ice cubes into the glass, squeeze the juice from a lime, and chuck the spent shell in with the ice. I reach behind me, grab the vodka without even having to look, and give a generous pour. I top it off with ginger beer and don’t waste any time throwing the drink back.