My Favorite Half-Night Stand Read online

  With the kitchen tidied up, Reid extends his arms above his head in a leisurely stretch. My eyes are like magnets and follow the lines of his body, the way the fabric of his shirt pulls tight across his chest and strains along the curve of his biceps. I get a peek of stomach.

  Reid has a really nice stomach.

  I bet he’d look great with that shirt all the way off . . .

  Kneeling above me, arms outstretched, fingers wrapped around the headboard while he—

  Whoa.

  I mean . . . WHOA. Where did that come from?

  I fix my attention down at the dining room table and it’s a full five seconds before I dare to move again. I just had a sex thought about Reid. Reid. Reid Campbell, who always roots for the underdog in any sporting event, who pretends he enjoys classical music so Chris doesn’t go alone to the symphony, who buys a new pair of running shoes precisely every six months.

  When he returns to the table and sits down next to me, if the pounding of my heart is any indication, I do not look like I’m thinking about resuming our fascinating game of Monopoly.

  I blink over to my empty wineglass, eager to point blame in the most convenient place. How many of these did I have? Two? Three? More? I’m not hammered, but I’m not exactly sober, either.

  I’m the kind of tipsy where I should want to hug everyone, not pull my best friend’s pants down.

  GAH.

  Strictly platonic best guy friend. Strictly platonic best guy friend.

  Heat rushes to my face and I stand so quickly my chair teeters on its back legs. Four sets of curious eyes swing in my direction, and I turn, making a beeline for the bathroom.

  “Millie?” Reid calls after me. “You okay?”

  “Gotta pee!” I shout over my shoulder, not stopping until I’m safely inside the bathroom and the door is firmly closed behind me.

  Normally I laugh when confronted with one of the dozen roosters we’ve given Chris over the past two years. But now? Not so much. The cock thing began as a joke—Chris complimented a giant rooster painting at Ed’s mom’s house, and she gave it to him on the spot—so of course every birthday, Valentine’s day, and Christmas present since has been some form of rooster décor. But even the sight of one of my favorites—a RISE AND SHINE MOTHER CLUCKERS sign I got him for his last birthday—only makes me think of the cock joke, which makes me think of penises, which reminds me of the image of Reid naked, in my bed, on top of me.

  Hands on the counter, I lean in to examine my reflection and, okay . . . it could be better. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes a little glassy. My eyeliner and mascara have converged in a dark smear below my lower lids.

  Kneeling, arms outstretched, fingers wrapped around the headboard—

  With the faucet on as high as it will go, I clean up and splash cold water on my face. It helps a little—cooling down my skin and clearing out the haze so I can think.

  It’s not that I find Reid unappealing in a sexual way—he’s gorgeous and brilliant and hysterical—but he’s also my best friend. My Reid. The guy who held my hand during an emergency root canal and dressed up as Kylo Ren when we went to see The Last Jedi on my twenty-ninth birthday. I’m close with the other guys, but for whatever reason, it’s different with Reid. Not that kind of different, but . . . closer. Maybe it’s because he always knows to find me in the true crime section of the bookstore. Maybe it’s because he has a level of intuition that I’ve never known in a friend before. Maybe it’s because we can be quiet together, and it’s never weird.

  I squeeze my eyes shut; it’s hard to have an existential crisis when you’re drunk. Part of me thinks I should head to the nearest exit, but the other part thinks we should just . . . hug it out.

  There’s a knock at the door and I step back just far enough to open it a crack. It’s Reid, looking sweetly disheveled with a dish towel still slung over his shoulder.

  God damn it.

  I straighten, hoping I look more sober than I feel. “Hi.”

  “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “Totally.” I lean against the doorframe in an attempt to appear casual. All this really does is bring my face within inches of his, which somehow makes me feel drunker. “You know how I am with wine. Goes right through me.”

  I’m an idiot, but before I can regret what I’ve said, he’s laughing. Why does he always laugh at my dumb jokes?

  “Ed and Alex are headed out,” he says quietly. “You can’t drive. Can I take you home?”

  “I’m not drunk.” This statement would carry more weight if I didn’t hiccup immediately after saying it. “And I wasn’t going to drive.”

  He tilts his head and a piece of soft brown hair falls forward, curling over his forehead. My brain immediately sides with Team Hug It Out.

  “Come on,” he says. “You can control the radio on the way.”

  It’s sunny and perfect in Santa Barbara at least three hundred days a year. We get most of our meager rainfall in early spring, and as we drive down Highway 1 at midnight—windows open and Arcade Fire blasting on the radio—it smells like a storm in the distance.

  “Did you have a good night?” I ask, rolling my head to see him. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to refocus. The inside of the car is dark, his profile in shadow.

  “I did.”

  “Does it feel different?”

  He turns to me and smiles, the tips of his lashes glowing gold in the light from the dashboard. “What? Tenure?”

  “Yeah. Knowing you can only be fired for incompetence or gross misconduct.”

  He laughs. “Define gross misconduct again?”

  “Sexual harassment, murder, embezzlement . . .”

  “You’re kind of making it sound like a dare.” He reaches for my hand where it sits on the console between us and squeezes my fingers. “You cold? I can turn on the seat warmers if you want to keep the window open for air.”

  “I’m good,” I say, but he keeps hold of my fingers anyway. “Maybe with less time in the lab and more in the classroom, you can cut back a little. Have more time to yourself.”

  “To do what? Play pinball with Ed?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, “explore new hobbies, find yourself, date. You work too much.”

  He turns to me again and grins adorably. “Why would I need a date when I already have you for the banquet?”

  I roll my eyes. “I mean, like, in the general sense.”

  “Okay, Pot. When’s the last time you went out with someone who wasn’t one of us?”

  I search my memory, counting back five . . . six months, and can’t help but recall the veritable wasteland my sex life has become. I’ve been stressed with deadlines and family stuff and my brain is just looking for an escape pod, a little release. No wonder I’m having sex thoughts about Reid.

  When it takes me too long to answer, he gives my fingers another squeeze. “Need me to get out a calendar? I think I have an abacus in my office.”

  “I think it was Carson? The barista who worked at Cajé.”

  In the dark I see his eyes narrow as he thinks. “Wasn’t he younger than you?”

  “A few years,” I say with a shrug.

  “Seven years,” he corrects. “And he had a nose ring.”

  That was some impressive recollection, Reid. “Men date younger women all the time and get a pat on the back. Why does dating a younger guy automatically make me a cougar?”

  He holds up a hand. “I am not calling you a cougar. Listen, if twenty-one-year-old college me had had the chance to bang beautiful twenty-eight-year-old you, I’d have done it in a hot second.”

  Wait, what?

  A shiver moves down my spine and he notices, shifting to run a hand along my arm. “You have goose bumps.”

  “Oh.” I reach over to close the window. “I guess it’s chillier than I thought.”

  “So what happened? Between you and—”

  “Carson,” I finish for him. “Nothing happened. He was twenty-one. There weren’t a lot of places it
could go.”

  “You mean, it was just sex.”

  I’m thankful we’re still sitting in the dark so he can’t see me get all blushy and awkward. “My muscle tone had never been better.”

  Reid barks out a scandalized laugh.

  “I’m not lying. What about you? When was your last . . . you know?”

  “Hmm.” He taps his thumb against the steering wheel. “My last you know. I’m not sure. You probably know my life as well as I do. You tell me.”

  “You work all the time.”

  “Funny thing about that,” he says with a grin. “It’s probably how I got tenure.”

  I concede this with a dorky little nod. He turns down State Street, which, this time of night, is the quickest route to my house. I watch as we dart past the streetlights one by one.

  “Does that make us lame?” I wonder. “That we’ve been single this long and nobody in our group is in an actual relationship? Ed and Alex date more than us, maybe even Chris, but it never goes anywhere. Is it possible we’re all enabling each other to die alone? Are we turning into a weird celibacy cult?”

  “We’re definitely enabling each other.”

  “But should we be worried about that?” I ask. “One of the many, many problems I had with Dustin was that he wanted a good little wife. I’m not even sure I have that gene and haven’t been with anyone long-term since him. You haven’t since Isla. Does that make us failures?”

  “I think it means the opposite, actually,” he says, pulling into my driveway and shifting the car into park. He turns to face me. “Let me ask you a question. Do you love your career?”

  I don’t even have to think about it. “One hundred percent.”

  “Well, there you go. And even if we are enabling each other, who cares? You could never die alone, because you have me.”

  It’s suddenly quiet in the car and I know I should go inside. I should wash my face and put my pajamas on and go straight to bed.

  I should let Reid go home.

  The problem is I don’t want to.

  “Come inside with me,” I say, pushing open my door and already climbing out. The air is cool and smells like the ocean, but it’s not enough to drown out whatever buzz is still humming in my veins or make me come to my senses.

  I have no idea what I’m doing or what’s happening between us, but when I reach the porch and pull out my keys, Reid is right behind me.

  chapter two

  reid

  I’ve never hooked up with a friend before . . . is that what’s happening right now?

  I mean, it seems like it might be. Millie is being herself but a little . . . more. Giving me a shy smile while her eyes wander a lot more than I’m used to, then twisting her fingers in mine when I held her hand in the car . . .

  It’s like unlocking a window and letting the wind blow it wide open. If Millie is flirting, then what? Should I flirt back? This is a very The Usual Suspects moment—I had no idea Millie was this person.

  Are we doing this?

  I blatantly check out her backside when she ducks into the fridge to grab us each a can of sparkling water. It feels nearly clinical the way I study her.

  Objectively, it is a fantastic ass.

  It’s just that it’s Millie’s ass. Initially—briefly—she was known as Dustin’s Millie. Later—and better—she was known as one-of-the-guys Millie, Our Millie. Now, it appears, she’s Drunk Flirty Millie.

  I’ve looked at her ass before, of course. I’ve looked at all of her, frankly, but I’ve done it in the dissociated way all guys look at women—almost without realizing we’re doing it. Casually, too, and entirely due to the habit of proximity: while helping her out of her coat, while holding her beer as she takes off a sweater, while examining her outside a changing room when she asks whether she should buy a particular pair of jeans. Regardless, no matter how objectively pretty she is, Millie Morris has always been off-limits.

  But mostly I think she’s been off-limits because she’s never shown any particular interest in any of us.

  She clears her throat and I drag my eyes back up to her face. Which, it’s fair to say, may be the best part of her: the enormous bright green eyes, the sarcastic mouth, the splash of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She’s beautiful, yes, but I’ve never truly veered into Is she sexy? territory until tonight.

  “I was checking out your ass.”

  “And?” She leans a hip against the counter and gives me a smile that’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen from her. Most of her smiles are openmouthed, delighted, often given through a choking laugh as she quickly swallows a mouthful of beer. Other smiles are half-baked, amused at us while we try to get a rise out of her. The rare smile is triumphant—when she gives us the perfect amount of shit. They’re rare only because she so infrequently shows her cards.

  But this one is a little like being told a secret. She seems to agree, because she bites her bottom lip halfway through it, like she’s trying to put it away.

  I think she wants a rating on her backside, but it’s probably clear from my expression that I’d give her high marks. “What’s with you tonight?”

  A bare shoulder lifts and drops. “I’m tipsy.”

  This makes me bark out a laugh. “ ‘Tipsy’? I’d be amazed if Chris has any wine left in his house.”

  “Don’t blame that on me,” she says. “You’re the one who went and got tenure. Besides, Ed took down two bottles by himself, and Alex was pouring mine.”

  “Ed’s blood is ninety percent alcohol.”

  “And ten percent Cheeto dust.”

  She moves over to me, waters in hand, and the only way to describe her gait is sashay-y. It’s so dramatic it makes me start to laugh. We’ve known each other for more than two years, and I never would have predicted this playful, seductive side of her. But the sound is cut off in my throat when she puts the waters down on the end table near me and puts her hands squarely on my chest.

  Anticipation comes alive beneath my skin.

  “Mills.”

  “Reids.”

  Speaking through the pressurized air in my throat, I say, “What are you doing?”

  “Seducing you.” She lifts one hand and draws a pinky down the side of her face, pulling away a strand of auburn hair. “Is it working?”

  I’ve never had reason to check myself around her before, and the answer easily slides out of me, unfiltered: “Yes. But why?”

  Another shrug. “I haven’t had sex in a while. You were doing dishes earlier.”

  “Dishes?”

  “It was sexy. And you stretched. I saw stomach muscles and happy trail.”

  “Oh, well, of course we should end up here.”

  She growls a little as she stretches to press her nose into my neck, inhaling. “I like how you smell.”

  I freeze. When she says this, it feels a little like standing at the static center of a spinning room. Again: Millie. This is Millie Morris. Goofball. Colleague. Stealer of my Stanford sweatshirt. Woman who shares my exact tastes in beer. The glue of our circle of friends. “You do?”

  “Yeah,” she says, and blazes heat into me with the press of her mouth over my pulse point. “It’s familiar, but I never realized until now how nice it is up close.”

  While she kisses up my neck, I’m dragged back two years, when Dustin brought her along with him to meet up with the rest of us for drinks. Chris, Alex, and I thought he seemed like a cool guy; maybe he’d be another colleague we could end up hanging with. Academia is hard as hell, and it helps to have a community of people who get the schedule, understand the pressures. But within a half hour, Dustin was playing darts with some surfers, and Millie got us all drunk on car bombs and dirty jokes. From that night on, Millie seemed more ours than his. I know they ostensibly broke up because their schedules weren’t compatible, and they hit a plateau—also he was basically a dick—but I sometimes wonder how much her friendship with us contributed to the breakup.

  It was a friendship that came at the
perfect time. I was still reeling from Isla calling off our engagement, and only beginning to find my friend clan at the university. Chris, Alex, Ed, and I hung out, but it was spontaneous—never something we planned or assumed. As soon as Millie joined our little gang, though, being together became the default: barbecues at Chris’s when it was nice out. Football at Millie’s on Sundays with a big TV and the best furniture. Game night at Ed’s. Inside jokes and familiarity. We fell into a rhythm and built a scaffold of community. Before Millie we got together when we randomly bumped into each other; because of her we now have lunch every Monday and Wednesday, and I can’t imagine a week without it.

  I fucking love all of them, but romance wasn’t even on the table. Now it’s just me and Millie here, standing so close our chests touch. I’m trying not to contemplate what the others would think right now.

  When I focus again, it’s hard to think of anything; Millie has been busy. One finger is tucked into my belt loop and her lips are hovering near my chin, skirting along my jaw. It’s decision time. All I have to do is tilt my face down to her, and we’ll be kissing. I’m already getting hard, and the question whether this is a great or disastrous decision is growing cloudier.

  “Are we going to do this?” This time I say it out loud. Her breath, against my mouth, is sweet with wine and the apple Jolly Rancher she swiped from Chris’s counter on our way out the door.

  “I really, really want sex tonight,” she admits. “Specifically, I’d like sex with you, but if you’re weirded out by this, then it’s cool if you leave and I dive into the drawer of sin in my bedroom.”

  I haven’t exactly made up my mind, but my lips pass over hers once—just to see—then again, and it’s not weird, not even a little. It’s soft and easy. My pulse taps out an impatient beat inside me. “The drawer of sin?”

  “Sex toys.”

  “No,” I say, kissing her again, “I translated that. I mean . . . you have an entire drawer of them?”

  “It’s not a huge drawer.” Her mouth comes over mine, firmer now, and then she grins into the kiss. “But yeah. It’s full.”

  Wow, her lips are unbelievable—playful, soft, immediately addicting. It takes almost no time for her to transition from Millie, my friend into Millie, sexpot, and for a tiny flicker, I desperately hope that we can transition back just as easily.