Well Played, стр. 23
And now I’m sending you an email to say hello to the new year. Start as you mean to go on. I hope you had a great time out with friends, and that there was someone there to kiss you at midnight since it can’t be me.
I thought about getting my laptop, but it was on the other side of my apartment and I was tucked in bed with Benedick purring in my lap. So instead I pecked out a response on my phone.
To: Dex MacLean
From: Stacey Lindholm
Date: January 1, 1:13 a.m.
Subject: Re: Re: Happy New Year
It was a great evening, thank you. A smidge too much tequila but that’s how a lot of these nights go. No one at the bar worthy of kissing, but I gave Benedick a smooch and he didn’t seem to mind.
A response came almost immediately.
To: Stacey Lindholm
From: Dex MacLean
Date: January 1, 1:16 a.m.
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Happy New Year
I take it back. I don’t know if I want someone there kissing you. Who the hell is Benedick, and why did his mother name him after a Shakespeare character? I can’t believe this. You’re out there getting kissed while I rang in the new year at the kitchen table with my uncle Morty.
A warm glow bloomed through my skin, almost as intense as the tequila buzz that had subsided about a half hour ago. Dex was jealous. This was wonderful.
I flipped to my camera and scooped up a sleepy Benedick. He barely moved as I took a selfie of the two of us, me planting a kiss onto his fluffy head. He’d lived with me long enough that he was used to me demanding photos; sometimes he even seemed to enjoy his little bursts of Instagram fame. If a cat knew what Instagram was. I deposited him back into my lap, where he purred and snuggled into my belly as I cropped the photo, brightening it since the fairy lights were kind of dark. I started to switch back to my email, but after a moment’s hesitation, closed out of the email and opened up my contacts instead. I’d never sent Dex a text before, because texting had felt too intimate. I wasn’t sure if it was the lingering tequila, the lateness of the hour, or the buoyant knowledge that a man who looked like Dex was actually upset that someone else might have been kissing me. Whatever it was, I was feeling intimate. Besides, pictures from phones sent better via text than email. So I selected his number and attached the picture to a text.
Meet Benedick. He’s an excellent kisser. Or kissee, really.
I held my breath as I hit Send. Was he even anywhere near his phone? He could have been emailing me from a laptop. Maybe he wouldn’t get it till morning. But no: the message was marked “read” almost immediately, followed by those dots that indicated he was texting back.
Of course. Benedick to your Beatrice. Okay, I’ll allow it.
A slow smile spread across my face, and the warm glow intensified. He remembered my Faire name. Maybe I wasn’t just another wench in another town to him.
He sent another text: Much cuter than my date. Followed by a photo of a tall glass of beer. Something dark.
I approve of your date as well, I texted back. Though there’s plenty to be jealous of there too, you know.
Oh really? How so?
I caught my breath as I realized what I’d texted. I’d been thinking about that tall glass. His mouth on its edge, the tip of his tongue licking foam off his lips. And I’d been jealous. Of a glass of beer. Maybe this was getting a little too intimate. But what the hell.
I wish I could have kissed you at midnight. Is that a bad thing to wish? My fingers were uncertain on the keys, and it took two tries to send the text. Was that too much? It shouldn’t be; I’d slept with the man, for God’s sake. But our emails over the past few months felt more intimate than anything I’d shared in his bed. I’d been getting to know the man he was inside, not just how he liked to have sex. Through our emails, I felt like I’d met him for the first time all over again. But while we’d shared the secrets of our hearts, we hadn’t talked attraction, either from our past encounters or the new intimacy blooming between us. Kissing him now would feel like kissing him for the first time, and I ached for it.
My last text was delivered, then it was read. Then my phone was silent, and dread swirled in the pit of my stomach. I’d gone too far. I’d ruined it. But then the dots came.
No.
No? I scrunched up my face as I read those words. What the hell did that mean?
But he wasn’t done. More dots.
That’s a perfect wish. Because I wish it too. More than anything.
My breath caught. Oh thank God.
He was still typing. Times like this, especially when it’s late at night, I think about you more than I probably should. Think about how your hair would feel between my fingers. Think about how your lips would taste. Your mouth. Those are the things I think about when it’s this late at night, when my mind goes crazy with wondering and wanting.
I pressed my palms to my suddenly very warm cheeks and kicked my legs out from under the blankets, disturbing the cat. When had this room gotten so warm? But if he could confess those things, so