Perf
"Can you please help us take these to the other room?" Carl asked, pointing toward the relaxation lounge—the sin-den Anne designed for champagne, sultry jazz, and her sugar-boy affairs. "I think it would be more comfortable there, wouldn't it, Jake?"
Jake barely looked up. "Sure."
Carl's fingers brushed mine again, deliberately this time, as he pointed to the tray of assorted chocolates and wine on the sideboard. He didn't need to touch me. He could've used his words. But he didn't. He chose contact, like he wanted me to remember his presence in every way possible.
I blinked, trying to ignore the little flutter in my stomach as I picked up the tray and turned toward the lounge. My heels clicked against the hardwood floor as I walked ahead of them, painfully aware of the sway of my hips. Are they watching me? Oh God, my dress is tight. Is my ass moving too much? Or not enough?
I wanted to check. Just glance behind me. But I couldn't.
I kept walking, praying my feet didn't fail me, until I stepped into Anne's infamous lounge. The room was dimly lit, dressed in deep velvets and gold accents. A chaise longue in the center. Two plush armchairs angled at the fireplace. A sleek black coffee table in the middle—Anne's playground when she entertained.
I placed the tray on the table, adjusted the wine glasses, and turned on the TV for ambient sound. The screen lit up to a football match replay, commentary already loud and dramatic.
The men entered behind me. Carl's presence felt like thunder. Jake's, a calm breeze.
They dropped into the chairs like they belonged here. Carl grabbed the remote and changed the station to a live football match. Arsenal versus Manchester United.
"Seriously?" Jake muttered, glaring at the screen. "Arsenal?"
Carl grinned. "Come on, man. The Gunners are evolving."
Jake scoffed. "Into what? A championship-winning club in your dreams."
They began arguing, half-playful, half-serious—like men always did when sports were involved. Their voices filled the room, bouncing off velvet walls and crystal chandeliers.
And I just stood there awkwardly, the third wheel in a room I once cleaned with bleach and bitterness.
"Are you busy?" Carl asked suddenly.
I turned, startled. "Not yet"
He reached for a chocolate, unwrapped it slowly—too slowly—and tossed it into his mouth. His jaw flexed as he chewed. "Why not have some with us?"
The way he said have some made my brain go to places I shouldn't be thinking in the presence of Jake.
I blinked.
Jake didn't even look at me. He was too busy watching the match, muttering under his breath about referees and ridiculous goalposts.
Carl leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Sit with us. You've been serving all evening. Take a break."
My mouth opened to decline, to offer some excuse, but nothing came out. My voice had packed its bags and left for the night.
He noticed.
"You can sit there," I finally stammered, pointing at the rocking chair by the side. Neutral territory. Safe space. No heat, no danger.
I moved toward it in a daze, like my legs had a mind of their own.
Then he stopped me.
Again.
"Why don't you sit next to me?" Carl asked, patting the space beside him on the chaise longue. "That way you'll reach the chocolate faster."
He smiled. And that smile was not innocent. It was devastating.
"Oh God," I whispered to myself.
I could feel my lips parting but no words forming. My thoughts were tangled between run and what if he pulls you closer again?
Jake didn't protest. Didn't even glance our way.
I moved toward the chaise like I was walking toward a storm.
Carl shifted to make room. And as I lowered myself onto the soft velvet cushion beside him, he turned slightly—enough that our thighs brushed.
"Comfortable?" he asked.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. His scent wrapped around me again—clean and warm, something like cedar and leather and the danger of new attraction.
He picked up another chocolate and offered it to me.
I hesitated.
But then I took it and thanked him.
The heat in his gaze was suffocating.
I bit into the chocolate and forced myself to chew. Don't moan. Don't moan. Don't moan.
"You like it?" he asked.
I nodded slowly. "It's good."
"I've got great taste," he whispered.
Oh, this man knew exactly what he was doing.
The football commentary buzzed in the background as the energy between us morphed into something electric. Carl leaned back lazily, his arm now resting behind me, not touching, but close enough to burn.
Jake laughed at something on the screen, totally oblivious. "Did you see that dive? Embarrassing."
Carl didn't respond. He was too busy watching me.
He reached for another chocolate, threw it into his mouth, and chewed slowly, his jawline flexing with every movement. His lips were plush, the kind of lips that made promises without saying a word.
I stared.
He noticed.
"You're staring," he whispered.
"No, I'm not."
He leaned closer. "You were."
"Was not."
"Then you won't mind if I do," he said, eyes dropping to my lips.
I turned away sharply, heart galloping in my chest.
I reached for the wine instead. "Do you want a refill?"
"I want you to relax," he said instead.
I didn't know how.
Not with him so close.
Not with Jake right there—completely uninterested, yet still the man I thought I wanted. The man I thought I'd fall for if I could just get him to look my way.
But here I was, feeling more alive in the last hour with his friend than I had in the last two years watching Jake from the shadows.
What kind of twisted plot was this?
Carl unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt, heat radiating off him. He leaned forward to grab the remote and changed the channel back to a jazz station, clearly done with football.