He straightens up the books on the coffee table for what feels like the 60th time that evening and then sits back, chewing on his nails.
She isn't going going to care about the angle of the books on his coffee table, of course, but then again he can never be sure with her. He doesn't want her to come over and think he's a slob. Even though he knows that a few crooked books on a coffee table don't make him a slob.
Christ, what is wrong with him? He's certain he isn't supposed to feel this way about his "friends-with-benefits." This isn't the behavior of someone who isn't romantically attracted to another person. She's a great friend, and she's great at sex– which was all they'd agreed to in the beginning. And the agreement had worked out just fine. They'd meet up at one of their houses, probably eat something. A few glasses of wine later, they'd be rolling around in the sheets, connected in every way. They'd fall asleep and, chances are, he'd wake up alone the very next day. And that was great for him.
Only it wasn't. Not really. Not after the third time he'd invited her over, poured her a glass of wine, and watched her dance to classic rock music in his living room. Not when their makeout session had been interrupted by them discussing favorite classic rock bands in only their underwear. It was then that the thought occurred to him that maybe– just maybe– he was feeling more than a "Friends-with-benefits" connection. The feeling had haunted him ever since.
It's been weeks since he's called China now. In fact, it's probably been almost two months and he hasn't so much as sent her a text message since the morning after he'd come to that realization. She had shot him a "Thanks for having me" text, as she always did, but he'd never replied. Truthfully, he'd felt bad for it at first. It wasn't like she could read his mind and know what he was thinking. She probably had no idea how he was feeling. And he'd thought it best that he keep it that way. After all, feelings often ruined such things, and he didn't expect her to reciprocate them. Which is why he hasn't contacted her since.
Until tonight.
Tonight, he's had a few rum and cokes and he's feeling alone and... well, horny, to be frank. And he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss that girl. So, after downing the last of his drink, he'd shot her a text. To his surprise, it didn't take her long to answer.
Busy tonight?
Well hello hello. No, actually! Completely free.
Want to come over? There's a bottle of chardonnay with your name on it.
Tempting. And for you?
Captain Morgan paid me a visit tonight. As should you.
Should I? What's in it for me?
You know what's in it for you. Stop being cheeky.
Alright Boyce. I'll come over, if only for the bottle of Chardonnay. We'll see how things go from there, hm?
Wonderful. x
Fifteen minutes sound good?
Of course.
He's been here now for 20 minutes (not that he's counting) and he's beginning to wonder if she's bailed on him. He nearly jumps out of his seat when he hears her light little knock on the door.
He can't get to the door soon enough. He has to remind himself to pause, regulate his breathing, and run a hand through his hair before opening the door. When he does finally open it, he can feel his heart pounding through his chest.
