Secrets We Whisper in the Moonlight (Decisions in Durham Book 2) Read online

  Before I could answer, he pulled me against his solid chest and wrapped me up in his warm arms. He furiously rubbed my back, using the friction to help me survive until our food was ready. I inhaled deeply, letting him fill my senses. He smelled like the same Old Spice deodorant he’d always worn. And the new cologne he’d picked out around Christmas—the one I’d helped him decide on. And the crisp chill of winter. He smelled like a thousand childhood memories, a hundred adolescent fantasies, and home.

  Once upon a time, I thought I loved Jonah Mason. I still flushed with shame and embarrassment over how that debacle ended. But even though those days were long behind me, and we’d settled into this mature, grown-up friendship, I still had to fight latent butterflies when he pulled moves like this. When he stepped too close, and I only could see and smell him, all I wanted was to wrap my arms around his waist and hold on for the rest of eternity.

  His name was called out from the pickup window, and he stepped away from me to grab our food. The little warmth I’d found in him blasted away with a new rush of cold winter air. It was the slap in my face I needed. The frigid wake-up call that brought me back to my senses.

  I didn’t love Jonah Mason. Not anymore. He was a good friend. And a good person. But that was it.

  He held up the brown grocery bag filled with our orders triumphantly. “I started my car. It should be nice and toasty for you.”

  One last butterfly soared through my belly, dipping and tumbling and making it hard to breathe.

  Those unrequited days of pining over him were over. Way, way, way over. If only my lonely, neglected heart was better at remembering.

  five

  My apartment was only five minutes from Craft. Well, if I drove like a maniac to get there. But by the time we parked in the attached lot, walked up the three flights of stairs, and stripped out of our coats and winter wear, our food was cold.

  I walked over to the oven and punched the right buttons for it to heat. I loved to bake, but I hardly ever had time for it. So this was the most action my oven had seen recently—reheating the takeout that didn’t survive the drive.

  Jonah handed over the bag of food wordlessly. I started pulling out the containers and moving things to oven-safe dishes while he dug through my alcohol cabinet and pulled glasses from the right floating shelf. “Old-fashioned?” he asked, sounding like he already knew the answer.

  “Yes, please,” I told him. “That blackberry simple syrup you made last week is in the door of my fridge if you want to get fancy with it.”

  “Do you have blackberries?” he asked, sounding especially snobbish about his drinks.

  I rolled my eyes at the spoonful of shepherd’s pie I was moving to a hand-me-down Pyrex from my mom. “No, but I have those dirty cherries if you want to mix things up. You know, a little modern, a little traditional. I have regular bitters or those black walnut bitters you gave me for Christmas in the liquor cabinet.”

  He made a noncommittal sound and rummaged through my fridge and freezer. “You’re out of big ice cubes.”

  “Yet somehow, we’ll survive.”

  He threw a regular-sized ice cube at me from across the kitchen. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a smart-ass?”

  He told me that all the time. “Once or twice,” I said, shrugging one shoulder and not turning around.

  Something was settling—easy—about Jonah moving around my kitchen while I made dinner. Well, I wasn’t exactly making dinner. But I was preparing it, so that counted. After a whole day of feeling upended by Will’s secret scheme and the general sprinter’s pace of trying to get ahead on my work at the bar—and failing miserably daily—I liked that Jonah was here now, planning to eat dinner with me, making me a drink.

  Don’t get me wrong, I loved my independence. It was probably why I wasn’t very good at dating. At least not long-term. I excelled at first dates and the early stages of relationships—when expectations were few, and the conversation was all get-to-know-you questions and discovering favorites. It was when they wanted to introduce me to their friends or parents or set up future plans that I faltered.

  It was easier to avoid relationships altogether than try to manage my work, my family, and a boyfriend. And honestly, who had the energy to invest in all those things at once? Owning Craft took everything out of me, and I was still perpetually behind. Plus, add in my crazy brothers . . . I just didn’t have an unending well of energy—the kind that a serious relationship would require.

  Still, this was nice. Having someone to sit with during supper. Having another presence in my apartment after a long dry spell of isolation. Having someone else make me a drink for a change.

  I smiled at the inside of the oven as I popped the casserole dishes inside. When I stood and turned around, I tried to smother the contented expression, but Jonah was waiting with a fresh drink. He handed it to me, then settled back against the counter, taking a sip from his tumbler.

  My apartment was the cutest. It was ultra-feminine with rosy pink lower cabinets and white floating shelves. I’d filled it with mismatched but colorful appliances that made me feel like I belonged in a French cottage along the beach or something. A plum blender for the protein shakes I made whenever I freaked out about my health. A floral toaster for when I remembered to get groceries and splurged on bagels and cream cheese. A buttery yellow mixer my brothers had gotten me for Christmas a couple years ago. And the pièce de résistance—a retro-style teal fridge that gave me life. The ice machine hardly worked, and sometimes late at night, it would make a growling noise that would wake me from a dead sleep . . . but it was beautiful.

  The rest of my apartment followed the same colorful theme. A U-shaped floral sectional I’d had custom-made when the bar first started making real money. White farmhouse-style everything else—coffee table, TV stand, bookshelves—filled with bright vases and floral knickknacks. The furniture was too big for the tight space, but I loved how it felt full and cozy.

  I didn’t remember having many pretty things in my childhood. My mother was as practical as they came, and my dad was always covered in grease from his hobby of restoring old cars. It wasn’t that my family didn’t appreciate beauty . . . it just wasn’t celebrated.

  When I was in high school, I promised myself that my adult life would be filled with beautiful things. That I would spend my whole life collecting a home and wardrobe and people who made me feel deeply. That made me feel lovely.

  And so far, I had. Even if a lot of it was a mix of thrift stores, gifts I might have sent specific links for, and a few expensive investments. I had an old Vespa from my dad I was slowly fixing up. It was almost running. And then I wanted to paint it bubble-gum pink. I had no idea where I would drive it, but I couldn’t wait to get it going.

  It wasn’t that I refused to be practical. But when you could have a toaster in Dalmatian print with baby-pink roses and curling green stems, why would anyone pick a plain stainless-steel one?

  I took a sip of my drink. The ice hadn’t melted yet, so the whiskey was strong. I loved the burn of it. The woodfire taste of it. In high school, I’d been all vodka and sugar. But somewhere in my early twenties, I’d developed a taste for whiskey, and it was like discovering my whole purpose in life.

  It didn’t fit with my soft, feminine, flashy style. Whiskey was best when it was understated and solid. It was like closing your eyes after a long day and taking your first deep breath. Or sinking into a hot tub after a killer workout, when all your muscles hurt, and your bones feel like breaking. It was slow and smooth and Matthew McConaughey’s low, drawling voice in a car commercial.

  I could be extra in a lot of ways. But whiskey kept me grounded.

  Or at least that was what I told myself.

  “What?” Jonah asked. “Why are you smiling?”

  “It’s good,” I told him. “Even with my disappointing ice cubes.”

  He shook his head at me. “Don’t worry, I filled up the good trays for you.”

  “Aw, thanks.” There was this awkward moment between us. It sometimes happened when we were quiet. And just looking at each other. Like the air between us flexed. Or froze or something. It didn’t happen all the time, but sometimes I would look at him, and my breath would stall. There would be something I wanted to say but didn’t know what it was. And it felt like he was trapped in the same moment of awkward-almost-something. His gray-blue eyes darkened, and he held my gaze until I had to gasp for breath and look anywhere but at him. “What do you want to watch?”

  He shook his head as if forcing himself away from the weirdness too. “Yeah, whatever you want. I’m not picky.”

  I pulled open the oven door to check on the reheating progress. “Great. I’ve been dying to check out this new dating reality show. I think season two just came out, so we can binge for hours. The couples don’t get to see each other at first. They have to talk through a wall or something. And I—”

  A yelp ripped out of my throat when the towel hit my ass. It wasn’t enough to hurt, but it scared the living daylights out of me.

  “Smart-ass,” Jonah murmured.

  I whirled on him. “How dare you?”

  He was grinning ear to ear. “You’re such an easy target.”

  “And you’re a giant bully.”

  “Only to you,” he said, as charming as ever. “But that’s probably because you make it so easy.”

  “Only a bully would blame the victim they’re bullying for being a bully.” I pulled the food out and lined it up on the stove. Spinning around, I threw out a smug, “That’s what we call gaslighting.”

  He twisted the kitchen towel in his hand like he wanted to snap me with it again. In an effort to literally save my poor ass, I pounced on him, capturing his wrists in my hands. My fingers couldn’t even touch
. His bones were too big. And the muscles flexed beneath my hands, reminding me it would take almost nothing for him to break my makeshift handcuffs.

  He laughed at my effort to restrain him. Somehow, the momentum of me moving and him trying to avoid me brought us together. My hands still wrapped around his wrists at my hips. My chest against his. His chin brushed the top of my head. And there I was, just staring at the hollow of his throat, watching his pulse thump.

  “Do you honestly think you can stop me?” he threatened, his voice all low and rumbly.

  “Easily.” I was going for bravado. But my voice came out stupidly breathy.

  He tugged lightly at my grip, and I was powerless to stop both his hands from escaping. In one fluid motion, he wrapped one arm around my lower back, caging me against him. And with his other, he pulled back his hand and slapped my ass. No towel this time. Just his hand on my butt.

  I let out another outraged yelp and glared at him. He grinned down at me, all sex and forgotten crushes. And he didn’t push me away. His arm stayed wrapped around my back. I could feel the imprint of his hand along my side. The other one splayed where it had landed on my ass. His laughter gentled. And his eyes did that softening thing again.

  For a second, I let it happen. I let myself fall into the fantasy I’d had more times than I wanted to admit. I licked my lips and held his gaze and imagined what it would be like to rise on my toes and kiss him.

  And in that same hypnotic second, I knew he did the same to me. His head dipped toward mine. His breathing stuttered in his chest. He wanted to kiss me.

  Could hardly stand not kissing me.

  “You’re an irreverent flirt,” I accused, stomping on the breathless moment with the heel of my Mary Jane. “Honestly, it’s amazing someone hasn’t filed a lawsuit against you.”

  I patted his cheek with more force than was necessary and stepped back. Disappointment clouded his expression so dark and stormy I wondered if he’d even bother to stay and hang out. “What?” he gasped, struggling to recover. And keep the darkness out of his voice. “Most girls aren’t mad at me, Liza. They’re all into that. Just because you’re the one female on the planet seemingly immune to my charm doesn’t mean you need to blame me. Now, who’s gaslighting who?”

  I snorted and reached for the plates on the other side of the kitchen. “I hope you’re not going around smacking girls’ asses and calling it charm.”

  “Sometimes they like it.”

  I threw a raised eyebrow look over my shoulder. “Sometimes? That’s hardly a pristine résumé.” After dividing equal portions of all the food, I moved to grab forks only to find he’d already gotten them.

  He held one wrapped in a paper towel out to me. “You do know I don’t go around sexually harassing women, right?”

  “My experience tells me that isn’t true.”

  “You don’t count. You’re not a woman.”

  His words landed like a punch in the gut. I wasn’t a woman in Jonah’s mind because I was just the kid sister still begging to tag along. I took the fork and makeshift napkin and headed for the living room.

  My heart felt the blow as acutely as my guts. I might not think of Jonah like a brother, but that didn’t mean he didn’t think of me like a little sister. And since we were just friends, I should be okay with that. But then why did it hurt so much?

  “Don’t be mad,” he called after me, instantly realizing his mistake. “That’s not what I meant. Obviously, you’re a woman, Eliza. A fucking sexy woman. I just meant . . .”

  “I know what you meant.” My voice was calm, collected, carefully masking the hurt simmering where he couldn’t see it.

  He sat down next to me, placing his food on a stack of magazines dating back at least four years. When I could finally afford my own place, I’d naïvely decided I needed magazines on hand for my guests like a real grown-up. So I’d taken my first paycheck from the bar, paid my bills, bought enough ramen to last me through a nuclear holocaust, and spent seventy-five dollars on magazines covering every topic and genre. Basically everything except Playboy.

  Then I’d artfully arranged them in communal sitting spots around my house. Where they remained today, unopened. I’d never even read them. If I wanted to know something about fashion or houseplants, I used the Internet. Meanwhile, they still looked cute, so I kept them. I even dusted them when I cleaned.

  So if Jonah accidentally spilled his supper on them . . . I wasn’t going to be mad about it.

  “I’m just teasing you, Eliza. You know that, right?”

  I took exactly one second to pull my shit together. He would know something was up if I took longer, even an additional second. But I needed the short pause to bury the offended teenager who was madly in love with him and resurrect the strong, confident, happily single twenty-seven-year-old woman he knew as his best friend.

  “Yep.”

  It wasn’t that I was wearing a mask or pretending or lying or anything else that wasn’t the whole truth. This was who I was. I was a successful, badass, independent female that was growing her business, taking care of her skin like it was a side hustle, drinking enough water—at least once or twice a week—working out semi-regularly, and occasionally investing in her retirement, however minimally and inconsistently that might be.

  I didn’t need Jonah’s pity. Or his random attempts at hooking up when he’d been single for a stretch and was particularly horny. Had I wondered what it would be like to have sex with Jonah? Obviously. How could I not? He was everything I found attractive in the opposite sex. Not just because he was unfairly handsome, but because he really did have a great personality too. He was kind, generous, and so funny. He took the time to check on me after I had a bad day. He noticed the smallest details about me. He listened to my opinions and remembered them and then took them into account when appropriate.

  And more than all that, he was comfortable. Like a security blanket in the form of a human being. It would be so easy to fall into something quick and easy with him.

  But then what?

  How would we recover afterward? How would he go back to being my security blanket? How would we reestablish boundaries and friendship and our easy familiarity? We couldn’t. It would destroy us. Permanently.

  And I wanted to be friends more than I wanted one great night and then a lifetime of awkward regret.

  So upon remembering all the reasons I was awesome and would eventually find a real, living, breathing, not-childhood-crush boyfriend, I rolled my eyes at him and added, “Listen, if you can’t keep it in your pants tonight, I’m kicking you out.”

  “I shouldn’t have poked the bear. I realize that now.” He actually sounded repentant, but I enjoyed making him suffer.

  Brandishing my fork at him, I reminded him, “I’m not your fuck buddy, Mason. If you can’t hang out and be cool, I’m sending you home.” I eyed his plate. “And I’m keeping your leftovers as reparations for the emotional trauma of being your friend.”

  He stabbed his fork into a big bite of potpie. “I get it, Liza. Geez. I said I was sorry.”

  Now I felt bad for making him feel bad. Which was the stupid power he and my brothers had over me. Ugh, I wanted to stab my fork into my forehead just like Jonah had his food. Why was I like this?

  I reached for the remote instead, hoping we could just move on and forget any of this had happened . . . ignoring how good it felt to flirt with him. And how off the charts our chemistry was. Why? Because none of that mattered. We’d known each other way too long and seen way too much stupidity for anything romantic to happen between us.

  He’d been the first to come to that conclusion. And I’d agreed with him shortly thereafter.

  “The second season of The Witcher is on.” It was my peace offering. Either he was going to take it or we’d spend the next hour flipping through shows and being miserable with each other before he made up an excuse to go home.

  “You hate The Witcher.”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t understand The Witcher. But I don’t hate Henry Cavill. So I’m just saying . . . if your secret nerd heart wants to fill up on sex-driven fantasy to fill the fathomless void in your soul, you have my support.”