“We make our own luck.” He reaches for a wine key and gives adare melook. I nod, grinning like a kid smuggling chocolate from the candy store.
Pop!
The sound makes me laugh, as does the stream of fizz pouring from the bottle, so bright and bubbly in the dreariness of the cellar.
“We don’t have glasses,” I gasp, stepping forward to catch some of the cold liquid on my fingertips.
“Who needs ’em.” He hoists the bottle high. “Here’s to a new year. May all your pain be champagne.”
“Did you come up with that?”
“Nope. Otis.”
“Our dog?”
“No, the song “Otis” from theWatch the Thronealbum. I play it when I work out at home, and Otis does love it. He probably thinks it’s his anthem.”
“Well, then may all your pain be champagne.”
He chugs straight from the bottle, his stare never unlocking from mine, heating, gentling the longer he looks at me. Wordlessly, he passes me the bottle, and I wrap my lips around the rim where his just were, the closest we’ll come to a New Year’s kiss. I gulp as long as I can before coming up for air, gasping as the effervescent bubbles caress my throat and invade my bloodstream.
“Happy New Year.” I laugh, tipping up to hug him with one arm, the crook of my elbow looped around his neck while I still grip the bottle. He stiffens for a second before relaxing against me, his hands coming to my hips, his nose dropping to my neck. He draws in a deep breath of me and exhales, his warm sigh breezing across my skin. I shudder, pressing even closer, turning my head at the same moment he turns his. Our noses are separated by mere inches. Our faces so close I can almost taste the champagne on his lips.
“Happy New Year, baby,” he whispers, his breath misting my mouth.
The air between us feels clear and yet fogged with lust and affection, like it always did before everything fell apart. In his arms, I feel like his girl again. The one who wanted him wildly and promised to love him always. To love him until the wheels fell off. These few seconds, spiked with effervescence and champagne, feel more real to me than anything has since our night in Charlotte, but a sound at the door shatters the illusion.
Vashti.
“Oh.” Her wide eyes watch us standing in each other’s arms. “Sorry to interrupt. Anthony thought…well, I—”
“You’re not interrupting,” I say, taking my time stepping away from Josiah, making sure it doesn’t look like we got caught doing something wrong. “We were just loading up the champagne.”
“Yeah.” Josiah places the last few bottles onto the cart and pushes it toward the door. “The waitstaff can start taking bottles to each table so we’re ready at midnight for the toast. Did you need something?”
“Yeah.” She darts doubtful glances between the two of us. “Just had a question.”
“I better get out there,” I tell them, my smile coming through for me. “It’s almost midnight.”
I leave them together and a little anxious knot forms in my belly. I never asked Josiah much about their breakup, but took him at face value when he said it wasn’t working out. I haven’t seen them together much over the last month. It’s clear to me, though, that she still has feelings for him. What if they find a way to work it out after all?
What demon prompts it, I don’t know, but I tiptoe back to the cellar to stand outside the door. There’s no sound, no conversation coming from inside. Back pressed to the wall like I’m in a spy movie, I lean my head just the slightest bit. It’s only for a split second, but long enough to see them in an embrace. She’s so petite, her head fits neatly under his chin, his arms linked at the small of her back. I jerk back immediately, rushing as quickly and quietly down the hall as possible.
What’s stopping him from going back to her?
Are they sleeping together again?
Have they reconciled and he just didn’t tell me? Because why would he tell me? He doesn’t have to. We had one night in two years of not trusting each other and nothing more between us than business and our kids. It was one night, but nothing has changed.
Tears burn my throat as I zip past the kitchen and lean against the wall before I reach the dining room.
“You ready, Yas?”
Startled, I look up at the question, brushing hasty fingers under my eyes. Cassie’s gaze fills with concern.
“You okay? We can get someone else to do the toast if you—”
“No.” I straighten and flick my ponytail over one shoulder, smile plastered on my face—all balls and bravado. “I’m ready.”