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“That’s what I thought,” he says. Then Eli pushes off from the counter, coming over to where I’m sitting. Up on the counter, he’s still got an inch or so on me, but we’re close to eye level. “But she pulled away after that. Said she was busy. But now she’s here in my apartment, acting like she cares about me too.”

“I do,” I whisper.

Eli takes the wineglass from me, setting it on the counter. Then his hands go to my knees, which are pressed primly together. He gently presses them apart, sending heat swirling down toward my center. “I deserve that, you know,” he says gruffly, as with a soft pull, he brings me toward him, so my legs are on either side of him, the crotch of my jeans only an inch from his body. Any closer, and only a couple layers of fabric would be between us pressed up against each other.

“Deserve what?” I say, as he slides his hand up and cups the back of my neck.

“I deserve you messing me up. Wanting you so badly it’s all I can take not to storm down to that restaurant and throw you over my shoulder.”

His lips go to my neck, breathing warm air over my skin.

“I don’t want to mess you up,” I say, shivering at the feeling of him. I can feel myself growing wet, too. But more than that, I feel an ache in my chest and a pull on my conscience.

“Eli,” I say, laying my hands on his shoulders. I need to tell him the truth. That I’m leaving next year.

My tone has its desired effect, and he pulls back, meeting my eye, his brow furrowed in a question.

I open my mouth to speak, but suddenly I have no idea what to say. If I tell him I’m leaving, he’s going to pull away.

He’ll be pissed, I know. He’ll skitter back down to his foul mood. We’ll probably fight. Then I’ll have to go. I’ll storm out of here and we’ll be worse off than we started.

Or right back to where we started.

And that’s the last place I want to be. I want to be here, with him. I want to have fun.

So I take a different tack. “How about tequila?” I ask instead.

Eli’s eyebrows shoot up, but I don’t miss the relief that slips over his face. “So you had a shit day too?”

Yeah. I wasn’t with you.

“Kind of,” I manage.

He searches me with his eyes.

“I want to have fun, Eli,” I say softly, brushing his hair from his brow. “You make me remember what it’s like to have fun again.”

Eli nods. “Fun.” Then he turns to the bottle, and I let out my breath. My hands are shaking.

“I don’t remember the last time I drank tequila,” he says, frowning. “But I do remember I didn’t always make the smartest decisions after.”

“Perfect,” I say, so quietly, I don’t think he heard me. But he looks over his shoulder at me and grins.

I almost tell him to forget it, to come back over here and press that bulge in his pants against me for real, no more teasing me.

“You drink a lot of tequila in college?” he asks, pulling two tumblers out of the cupboard.

“From time to time,” I say. “At shows, mostly.”

“Shows?” He pours a finger in each glass.

“Do you have any lime?”

“No…but I do have this”—he opens his fridge and comes out with one of those little lime juice containers.

I laugh. “It’ll do.”

“Tell me about these shows. Were they you singing?”