Shannon Stacey - Mistletoe & Margaritas

He forced his attention back to the pool table. “I told you, it’s not like that.”

“I don’t know what the problem is. She’s hot and you hang out more than a married couple.”

“We’re friends, Chris. It’s possible for a man and a hot woman to be friends without having sex.” It wasn’t easy, but it was possible.

Judy and Phil poked their heads in to say goodbye when their food was ready and Justin gave Chris a warning look behind Claire’s back. That subject was closed, at least as far as the other guy was concerned. It was never closed in Justin’s mind.

“Who won?” Claire asked, grabbing another slice of pizza from the tray.

“Me,” Chris said. “Smoked him, actually. His mind must have been on something else.”

Since her back wasn’t turned, he couldn’t send another glare in Chris’s direction, so he concentrated on keeping his expression neutral. “I let you win. Figured your ego could use the boost.”

“Whatever, dude. Claire, you in?”

“Rack ’em up.”

Since watching the two of them play really meant watching Claire bend over the table to line up her shots, Justin lined some quarters up along the edge of the pinball game and set about taking out his frustrations on the metal ball. The action was loud and fast and just what he needed to distract himself from the game behind him.

Until Claire moved up beside him to watch and he smelled the slightly tropical scent of her soap and shampoo and imagined he could feel the warmth of her body standing so close to his and the metal ball went down the chute with an electronic flushing sound of failure.

“Good timing,” she said. “I just kicked his ass, so you’re up again.”

“Be right there.” He picked up the quarters he hadn’t used and shoved them back into his pocket, taking the opportunity to adjust the crotch of his jeans.

Time to have another talk with himself about cutting back on the time he spent with Claire. Tomorrow.

It was still dark when Claire woke feeling flushed, a little breathless and a lot confused.

She dreamed about sex a lot, which was probably normal considering she was a twenty-eight-year-old woman who hadn’t had the real thing in two years. But this was the first time the dream had been so deliciously potent and the imaginary sex so mind-blowingly good she’d awakened with her body aching for more.

Which wasn’t good because it also happened to be the first time she’d dreamed about having sex with Justin. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

Moxie, sensing she was awake, strolled up the bed to bump heads with her, but Claire rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow. She’d just had the best sex of her life. Too bad it wasn’t real. And it was with the one person she shouldn’t be thinking about having sex with.

Everybody knew the quickest way for a man and a woman to ruin a friendship was to have sex.

Moxie mewed plaintively, kneading Claire’s shoulder, and she sighed. Five-thirty or not, it was time to get up. If she went back to sleep she might have imaginary sex with her best friend again and her nerves said once was enough.

“It’s Penny’s fault,” she muttered to the cat as she sat up. “She planted these thoughts in my head.”

She started the coffeepot brewing and hit the bathroom, but the shaky, off-kilter feeling didn’t fade. The first cup and the early morning news didn’t help, nor did Moxie nudging her, wanting to know what was wrong. She wasn’t so far gone she was going to try to explain being blindsided by an erotic dream about her best friend to her cat.

Maybe she didn’t want to have sex with Justin. Maybe it was her body’s less-than-subtle way of telling her it was time to wade back into the dating pool. Actually, her body wanted her to cannonball off the diving board, but her heart wasn’t up to more than dipping her toes into the shallow end.

She realized she was twisting her wedding band around on her finger and forced herself to stop. Nobody wanted to explore even the shallow end of the dating pool with a woman wearing a wedding ring. Well, not any guy worth dating, anyway.

Maybe it was time to take it off and put it away. Quick and painless.

Or it would have been if the band didn’t hang up on her knuckle. Dish soap didn’t do it. Butter didn’t help. When even a liberal application of olive oil didn’t budge the ring, she leaned against the counter, tears running down her cheeks unchecked because her hand were so gunked up she couldn’t wipe her eyes.

Maybe it was a sign. If she couldn’t get the wedding band off, she didn’t have to think about dating again. She laughed through the tears and Moxie, who’d been watching her with disdainful interest, retreated to the back of the couch.

“It’s not a sign,” she said out loud. “It’s all those potato chips I ate watching The Biggest Loser.”

After ten minutes with her hand stuck between two baggies of crushed ice and another dousing with olive oil, she was able to work the ring over her knuckle.

Claire set it, slimy and glistening, on the counter while she washed her hands. Even though winter was setting in, she’d spent a lot of autumn outside and the white circle of flesh was stark against the tan that had yet to fade. When her hands were clean, she washed the ring and then rubbed it dry.

Brendan’s wedding ring was on her dresser, in a small wooden box covered in tiny shells-a Cape Cod honeymoon souvenir so tacky they’d had to have it. She opened the lid and took out the gold band that was identical to hers, except larger. It had gotten hung up on his knuckle during the ceremony, though potato chips probably weren’t to blame. They hadn’t had to resort to begging hand lotion from a guest, though Justin had told her in a low voice to spit on it. Instead she’d shoved, Brendan winced and they all laughed about it at the reception.

She had vague memories of being asked if she wanted it left on Brendan for burial, but she hadn’t been able to part with it. For a long time she’d worn it on a chain around her neck, but she wasn’t a necklace person and when the time came that she was annoyed by it more than comforted, she’d put it away.

Now she dropped both rings into the box and, after sucking in a deep breath, closed the lid and waited to feel different. Maybe lighter or more free or…something.

But all she felt was a little hollow. And she wasn’t suddenly hit with an urge to sign up for an online dating service. All she could do was hope that one small step would be enough to satisfy her subconscious and put an end to the deliciously naughty dreams about Justin.

A few minutes later, her phone rang and she almost spilled her second cup of coffee down the front of her T-shirt. To make matters worse, Justin’s name was flashing at her from the caller ID window. Praying her voice sounded close to normal, she answered. “Hello?”

“You awake?”

“No. I answer the phone in my sleep.”

“Smartass. Just wanted to see if you’d be up to leaving earlier than we’d planned. If you’re awake.”

“I’ve been up since five-thirty, thank you very much.”

He laughed. “You? Did the smoke alarms go off or what?”

“Very funny.” She couldn’t very well tell him she’d been awakened by exceptionally good sex with him. “We don’t have to be at my parents’ until two.”

“I’m going to buy breakfast. I don’t know how long it’ll take to get my tires changed, and I still need to pick up a gift for Nicole.”

“She’s turning three and my parents probably bought out the toy store. You don’t need to bring a gift.”

“Can’t go to a birthday party without a gift. Then I feel guilty taking a second piece of cake.”

Claire laughed, letting his easygoing normalcy chase away the last of the lingering weirdness. “Fine. What time do you want to leave?”

“I’ll pick you up at eight?”

“Sounds good.” She hung up the phone, feeling better. It was just a stupid dream.

Justin noticed it right away-the soft ring of pale skin where the gold band had been-and his heart turned over in his chest like a sluggish engine on a sub-zero morning.

He knew he should say something-like maybe hello-but he was frozen, watching that tan-free ring of skin as she zipped her coat, and the only coherent thought in his head was what the hell does it mean?

Five years ago, he’d watched Brendan slip that wedding band onto Claire’s finger and he’d never seen her without it since. It had served as an unmistakable, highly visible reminder she was Brendan’s wife and now it was gone.

“You feel okay?”

No, he didn’t. His pulse was racing. His palms were sweaty. And the chronic ache that was his constant companion had flared into a throbbing pain.

She was ready to move on.

“Justin? Hello?”

“Yeah. Sure. You ready?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and went back down the stairs, needing to put some distance between them. It didn’t do any good, of course, since she was going with him and a few minutes later Claire and her naked ring finger were sitting next to him in the suddenly claustrophobic cab of his truck.

Having a girl for a best friend was challenging enough. They didn’t have the upper-body strength to help a guy change out an engine. They cried during movies. They needed blenders and umbrellas for their drinks instead of just a cold bottle of beer. Hell, he’d even bought a box of tampons once. Claire had been sick and thank God she’d texted him a picture of the right box or he’d still be standing in the girl aisle because, holy crap, women had options.

But having the girl you were half-or more-in love with as a best friend was a special kind of hell. He’d endured it well enough so far, but there was no way he was going to sit on her bed and watch her dig through her closet for something to wear on a first date. He didn’t want to watch her sigh over a text from some guy. And no way in hell was he going to giggle over the morning-after details if she invited the asshole up for “drinks.”