The Rom-Commers(84)

This moment, right here—no matter where it came from, or what it meant, or what it would or wouldn’t lead to—was worth it.

He clutched me tight with his arms, and I ran my palms over his jaw and into his hair. There were so many questions whirling through my head that I couldn’t even pay attention. Was this kiss ruining all other kisses that had ever existed—or would ever exist? Was there some way to crawl inside his body? How, exactly, could I make this go on forever?

I wasn’t cold anymore, that was for sure.

I took a step back toward the bed, not breaking the kiss, and Charlie followed.

Then I took another step, and he followed that one, too.

Then, when the backs of my calves touched the bed frame, I tightened my arms around his neck to hold on as I climbed up onto the bed—never breaking the kiss—and tried to pull him there after me.

But as soon as Charlie realized what I was doing, he pulled back and broke away—leaving me kneeling there alone.

He took a second to collect himself, breathing hard. Then he said, “Emma, we can’t.”

“Sure we can.”

“We already said we weren’t starting anything.”

“But we seem to keep doing it anyway.”

“Emma, we agreed.”

“You agreed,” I said.

But now he was returning to his senses.

He shook his head. “We have to stop.”

“Why?”

“You’ve been drinking, for one.”

“I am totally sober.”

“That’s exactly what a drunk person would say.”

“The belly flop sobered me up.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“Maybe it’s the hypothermia—”

“You do not have hypothermia.”

“—or maybe it’s the adrenaline. Who knows what kinds of chemical reactions go on inside the human body? But I’m fine.” I touched my pointer finger to my nose a couple of times for proof. “See? Easy! We’re good. I could walk a straight line right now. I could do a cartwheel. I could take the SAT.”

“Emma,” Charlie said, “there’s an empty champagne bottle lying on its side in the flower bed.”

“I admit that’s a large quantity of alcohol,” I said, trying to sound extra sober. “But I drank it slowly and responsibly over a long period of time. Like a grown-up.” Then, for added panache: “Like a French grown-up.”

“Emma…” Charlie said, shaking his head. “You are not in a state to give consent—to anything.”

Ugh. Now he was throwing consent at me?

How was I supposed to argue with that?

Maybe I could use my feminine wiles.

Did I have feminine wiles?

I decided to find out.

“Come here,” I said, waving him closer.

Charlie leaned cautiously in.

“I’m leaving in a few days,” I said conspiratorially. “We’ll never have to see each other again. And so I’m wondering if you’d be willing—just real quick”—and I still can’t believe I suggested this—“to go to bed with me.”

“What!” Charlie yelped, pulling back.

“I think it’s a great idea,” I said, refusing to participate in his drama.

“Emma,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “Do I have to explain what consent is to you?”

“I won’t tell anyone,” I stage-whispered.

“There will be nothing to tell,” Charlie stage-whispered back.

“Look,” I said, changing tack, “I have never in my whole life had the chance to sleep with someone who I really, really wanted to sleep with.” To be clear, “really, really wanted to sleep with” was a euphemism for “was hopelessly half in love with.”

Maybe more than half.

But that was need-to-know information.

“And,” I went on, “I would really, really like to sleep with you. Specifically.”

Charlie closed his eyes with a What a nightmare sigh.

But I kept going. This was my shot, and I was taking it. “I don’t live a life where chances like this come along very often. I may never get a shot like this again. So you’d really be doing me a favor. I’m not saying we should date—or even stay in contact. Just for fun, huh? Just a little treat. All the good stuff, and none of the angst. My life doesn’t have time for real romance anyway. My schedule’s too booked with”—I couldn’t think of what it was booked with, and somehow I finished with—“worry and stress.”

There it was. That was my pitch.

For a tiny second, Charlie held very still—and I wondered if he was tempted.

I studied his earnest, writerly face and felt a little buzz of hope.

But that’s when Charlie said, “Absolutely not. No way in hell.”

I gave him a second to change his mind.

Then, when he didn’t, I asked, “Charlie?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you like me back?”

Charlie blinked, like he never in a million years saw that coming.

“Is it my hair?” I asked, already agreeing. “Is it the frizz?”

“No!” Charlie said. Like he was offended by the question.