“Well, that’s certainly new.”
Her brow furrows. “I take that to mean you don’t like it?”
“No, I like it. I mean…” I trail off, unsure what to say. On any other woman, I probably would like the outfit—what’s not to like about boobs out for show and tell? But this is Libby. “It’s just different.”
“So? What’s wrong with putting myself out there a little on a Friday night?”
“Or a lot out there,” I tease.
“Fine. Or a lot.” She stands up straighter, rolling her shoulders back, making certain shapely, lovely things even harder to ignore. “I may choose to wear modest clothing most of the time, Justin, but I’m perfectly aware of the power of showing a little skin. I’ve had boobs since the fifth grade, you know.”
I blink. Hard. “Are you drunk, too?”
“No, I’m not drunk.” She sets her drink down on the bar table beside me with a huff. “Though I’m starting to wish I were. Are you trying to make me feel ridiculous and insecure?”
“No!” I lift my hands in surrender. “Sorry, I’ve just never heard you say the word boobs before. Let alone…” I start to motion toward her breasts, but think better of it and play it off by running a hand through my hair. “Yeah. You just caught me off guard.”
“But I’m right, aren’t I?” She steps closer, holding my gaze.
I frown. “Right about what?”
“Be honest.” Her voice goes soft as she lifts one nearly bare shoulder. “You’re having to work hard not to look at my chest right now, aren’t you?”
“No,” I lie, even as my traitorous eyeballs flick down for another quick glimpse of the creamy swells rising above the black lace of her shirt.
“Ha! See there!” she crows, pointing a triumphant finger at my rapidly heating face. “See! I knew it! I knew you were trying not to look!”
“It was the power of suggestion,” I say defensively, wishing I still had my scotch. I could really use something to hide my lying mouth behind. “It’s like when someone tells you not to look directly at the sun. As soon as the words are out, you can’t help looking right at it.”
“No, you can’t help looking right at it. Most people have the common sense not to do things that are going to damage their retinas.”
“Are you saying I have no common sense?”
“Are you saying my breasts are like the sun?” she counters, stepping so close I can feel the heat of her body and smell her Libby smell rising in the air around me.
I take a deeper breath, realizing for the first time that Libby smells good. Not simply good as in clean and inoffensive to the nostrils, but good as in I would like to know what she smells like after she hasn’t showered in a while. I would like to smell the curve of her neck after she’s fresh off a run, to pull her sports bra up and over her head and let my tongue explore the sweat-damp valley between those incredible, way-more-than-a-handful—
“I need a drink.” I cut the thought off before it—or the erection swelling behind the zipper of my jeans—can fully form. I refuse to think those kinds of thoughts about Libby. It’s so wrong that wrong isn’t a strong enough word for it.
I’m trying to think of a better word, something appropriate for things forbidden, disturbing, and a little embarrassing, when Libby puts a hand on my arm again, curling her fingers into the cotton of my dress shirt.
“Can we talk about the private stuff first?” Uncertainty creeps back into her gaze. “I’m afraid if I wait, I’ll lose my nerve and never say what I came over here to say.”
I swallow hard, fighting the urge to bolt. “What did you come over to say?”
“I have a favor to ask.” Her teeth worry her bottom lip in a way that makes the newly aware of Libby part of me wonder what her mouth tastes like.
Fuck. I have to get away from her and get my head on straight before I do something stupid like try to kiss her and ruin one of the best friendships I’ve ever had.
I’ve never even thought about dating either of the Collins sisters, no matter how nice they are to look at. They are my friends, so close we’re almost family. I’m the guy who glares at their boyfriends at the annual holiday party our parents throw together and who makes veiled threats about pounding faces if those douches even think about hurting Libby or La. I’m the big-brother type, not the guy trying to scam his way into Libby’s pants. Or down her shirt. Or daydreaming about slipping my tongue between her lips while I cup her breasts in my hands and—