What I Need

He tips his chin at me. “What’s that?”

I stare blankly at his face.

What’s . . . that?

Crap. I’m going to have to trigger his memory.

“Uh, do you . . . you called me pretty, before, like, a minute ago, remember? And I was asking if you really thought that?”

My cheeks are burning by the time I finish speaking, then I watch a slow, satisfied smile drag across CJ’s mouth while his brows lift in amusement and I realize he knows exactly what I’m talking about and he never stopped knowing exactly what I’ve been talking about.

Shit.

He starts chuckling.

Double shit!

I quickly lick the salt that is still on the back of my hand, grab the shooter he’s no longer holding hostage, toss it back, swallow the fire quickly and then exchange the empty glass for a lime wedge, holding it with all of my fingers as I suck out the sour.

“Are you enjoying that?” he asks, watching me as if he’s enjoying the display I’m putting on.

I nod behind my lime, then pull it away from my mouth, lick my lips and reply through a choked voice with eyes watering, “Yeah. Definitely.”

God. I think I just broke all of my taste buds.

“Do you think I would’ve said something to you I don't mean?”

I turn my head and look at CJ after discarding my lime wedge, noting the seriousness in his eyes after hearing it in his voice, and reply with honesty, “Maybe, if it was just the alcohol talking, which it could’ve been. I have no idea how much you’ve been drinking. Everyone could look like a pretty girl to you right now. Even the bartender.”

“Well that sure as hell isn’t the fucking case,” he says, pointing at his beer. “It’s not the alcohol, babe. That’s my third.”

My stomach clenches again.

“Okay,” I reply with a quiet voice.

“I meant what I said. I do think that.” CJ slides closer, his one hand flattening on the bar as he tips forward until he’s practically hovering on top of me. Then he bends down and drops his head next to mine, tickling my cheek with his breath. “I probably shouldn’t be thinking everything I’m thinking. You being Reed’s sister and him being a good friend of mine. It’s fucked up, darlin’, but I’m having trouble concentrating on anything else right now. You want to know if I’m serious and I don’t mind telling you, you look really fucking pretty sitting here next to me, Riley. On top of thinking that, I’m wondering how the fuck I’ve gone years without knowing about you.”

I am no longer breathing. I have completely forgotten how to breathe.

CJ leans back but doesn’t step away, so he’s still hovering, his legs still pressing against mine and his large body shadowing me while he waits for my response.

And I want to give him one. It’s just there’s a lot to focus on at the moment. CJ gives me plenty of information to respond to, like the thinking parts—him thinking things he shouldn’t be thinking. What things? I want to ask about that but instead, I decide to explain his last inquiry.

Forcing air into my lungs, I look up into his summer sky-blue eyes and say, “I don’t usually spend time with Reed and his friends. Him and I are close, but we don’t hang out like that. We never have. He’s older than me, so—”

“How much older?”

The tone in CJ’s voice grows more serious and dips lower. I know why he’s asking this.

At least, I think I know.

“Five years.”

“Which makes you . . .”

“Twenty-two.”

I watch his eyes move over my face. He stares at my nose and my lips and my cheeks. I swear he can see every freckle I thought I hid with my makeup and is taking the time to count them.

Every. Single. One.

“How old are you?” I ask, sounding as nervous as I feel but hoping a question will distract me from it.

“Thirty.”

“That’s a good age. I like thirty.”

God, what am I saying? I like thirty? I’ve never cared about a number before.

The corner of CJ’s mouth lifts.

I half expect him to turn away now and find someone else to look at since I’ve clearly lost my mind, but he doesn’t. He keeps looking at me.

And I suddenly realize how crushed I’d be if he did look somewhere else.

I like this. I like that it’s him looking. There’s something about CJ—something familiar and warm. I hardly know him, but I feel like I do.

Crazy. This is crazy. I’m crazy.

I’m probably imagining all of this. He’s being friendly. That’s it. And I’m nervous and my heart is pounding. He isn’t counting my freckles. God, what am I thinking? I need a distraction. I need to get the subject off me and my very legal age, and I need to do it before I go imagining anything else.

I decide on throwing out the first thought that pops into my head.

“Do all palm trees have coconuts?”

CJ blinks several times, jerking back. “Say what?” he asks, looking at me like I’ve suddenly grown two heads and he isn’t interested in counting the freckles on either one of them.

Okay. There’s more space between us. I can breathe a little now. This is good.

I feel my shoulders relax, then I lift both with a shrug and repeat, “Do all palm trees have coconuts? I’ve always wondered that.”

“And you’re wondering that right now?”