Page 64 of The Bet
I freeze, the screwdriver held like a weapon in my fist.
Andie just laughs, but it’s high and fake. “Not true. It’s just some guy. We’re not even official.”
Kayleigh pouts. “He’s super mysterious. Like, she never lets us meet him.”
Andie shrugs, and her hands go white around her knees. “He’s just busy. He works a lot.”
Mary Kate leans over, stage-whispers, “We think he works for the FBI. That’s the only reason she hasn’t brought him around yet.”
Everyone laughs—everyone but me, because I can’t. I can only look at Andie and see the quiver in her lip, the way she’s dying to reach across the table and touch my hand, just once, just for a second.
I turn back to the box, masking my face with the shadow of the shelf. “FBI agents are overrated,” I say, voice light. “Too many trust issues.”
Simone laughs, the tension broken. “That’s exactly what an undercover FBI agent would say.”
We all join in, and for a moment, it feels almost normal. Like I could stay here forever, building shelves for these girls, fixing whatever needs fixing.
When the laughter dies, I pick up the drill and test the trigger, the sharp whine cutting through the soft hum of the room.
“Let’s do this,” I say.
Stella claps, delighted, and drags a dining chair over for me to stand on.
As I work, Andie stands just behind my left shoulder, holding the level and reading the instructions. Our arms brush, skin on skin, and every touch is a jolt—half pain, half pleasure. I want to reach for her, to press her against the wall and kiss her until she cries out, but I don’t. I keep my hands busy, my mouth full of instructions, my eyes on the task at hand.
Occasionally, I let my gaze drift down the length of her body—the curve of her hip under the thin leggings, the way the sweatshirt hangs loose off her shoulder, exposing the pale, soft skin of her collarbone.
I want to bite it.
She senses my stare, and for a moment, the air between us is electric, the only real thing in the world.
“Does that look level?” I ask, not turning.
She checks it, her hand trembling just a little. “Perfect,” she says.
I grin, and together we hold the shelf against the wall while I drive the screws in, one by one. The drill bites deep, the wall vibrating with each thrust. I imagine what it would feel like to take her here, in this room, with all the girls gone. The thought makes me hard, and I will it away.
We finish the first shelf, and Stella whoops with delight, already arranging little potted succulents along the length of it.
“Mission accomplished,” I say, wiping sweat from my brow.
“Another one,” Kayleigh says, “over the TV.”
I glance at Andie. She’s breathing hard, her cheeks bright.
“Another one,” I agree.
We do it again, and this time our arms touch more often. When the shelf is up, I let my hand rest on her shoulder, just for a second, and she shivers under my touch.
It’s so small, so quick, that no one else sees it. But for us, it’s everything.
The rest of the night is a blur: more beer, more laughter, more shelves. Stella makes more popcorn in the microwave and dumps it into a mixing bowl, passing it around like communion. Kayleigh sets up the projector and starts a movie none of us really watch. The living room gets dark, just the flicker of the screen and the glow from the kitchen light.
I’m on the couch, trying to act normal, when Andie slips in beside me. She sits so close I can feel the heat from her thigh through my jeans.
For an hour, we don’t move. We just sit there, pressed together, watching the movie but not seeing it, listening to the others giggle and snark and argue over the plot.
I want to lean over, to whisper in her ear, to tell her I adore being with her. But I can’t. Not here, not now.
