14. Orson

Chapter 14

Orson

The clink of glasses and the buzz of soft laughter wash over me, a muted soundtrack to the lusty madness unfolding under the white linen tablecloth. Winter's hand plays a dangerous game, drawing invisible lines up my thigh as we pretend to engage in everyday dinner chat with our friends. Every movement sparks a smoldering heat that fights against the calm facade we've put up for the evening.

"So, Winter, you have to tell us more about Henry Reznik. A few of us caught him live in Denver last year, and holy crap, that man is a god." Piper, a high school friend and one of Dina’s bridesmaids, squeals from across the table, her curiosity piqued by tabloid gossip and fueled by Chardonnay.

I read about Reznik and Winter’s supposed love affair last year, but I’ve always assumed it was unfounded rumors. He doesn’t seem like her type.

"Reznik, huh?" I whisper, tilting my head close enough to catch the shimmer of mischief in her eyes.

Winter presses her fingers tighter around mine, a secretive smile playing at her lips. "Well, Henry Reznik's got nothing on you. But let them dream up their fairy tales if it keeps them guessing."

Across the table, Piper leans forward, her curly hair framing her eager face as she hounds Winter for details. "Come on, Winter. You can't drop a bomb like dating Henry Reznik and not spill the tea. How'd you two meet? I hear he's quite the charmer."

Winter's gaze flicks to me for a fraction of a second before replying with practiced nonchalance. "At a charity event," she says smoothly, her emotions guarded. "One date turned into three, and he was more interesting than expected. It never got too serious."

The girls squeal with delight and disbelief, some fanning themselves dramatically at even the mention of Reznik's name. Meanwhile, I focus on the thrumming pulse where our skin meets, caught up in Winter's little game.

"We broke up ages ago," Winter continues, drawing back her free hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The simple gesture leaves more skin exposed to my touch, and I trace abstract patterns across her palm with my thumb.

Piper’s mouth forms an O of surprise and disappointment. "Oh, no! You poor thing. Breakups suck!"

"Yeah." Winter shrugs dismissively, though her eyes flit to mine with an unspoken amusement that twists my heart in both painful and sweet ways.

"But it wasn’t anything to cry over—just a conflict of schedules. We’re still friends." Winter shrugs while squeezing my knee under the table as if anchoring herself to me.

The bridesmaids huddle together, their voices bouncing off each other in excited chatter. "But is he as dreamy as they say?" One of them leans forward eagerly, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"Oh sure," Winter replies calmly. "If you're into that brooding musician type." Her fingers tighten momentarily on my leg—a quick reminder to school my jealous features—before pulling away entirely as she sips her wine.

I’m sure my face must be red with anger because it feels as if it has caught fire.

I shift uncomfortably, reminded briefly of my real competition—not fabricated rock stars, but whatever shadows we haven't yet chased from our mutual past. Every chuckle and glance between us tonight binds old ties I feared we severed long ago. I need to make this work. I won’t survive losing her again.

"So, Orson.” Dina turns toward me now with a sparkle in her eye that tells me I'm not escaping without my share of the interrogation. "This sudden truce between you two is quite something. From ice-cold to what—secret lovers sneaking around? Should we expect an announcement soon?"

The table erupts in laughter again, some women nudging each other with knowing smiles. I play along, tilting my head toward Winter with feigned contemplation. "Well," I say slowly, dragging out the suspense, our friends hanging on my every pause and intonation. "Concentrate on the bride and groom. It’s enough to be friends again.”

Winter’s laughter melds beautifully with mine as we entertain their fantasies a little longer. She tugs my fingers gently under the tablecloth, stroking them like she stroked my cock last night—an erotic connection that feels like our own secret amidst this charade.

"Do keep us posted,” another bridesmaid chimes in, eyes dancing with curiosity.

"Absolutely,” Winter replies gracefully. "It’ll make for great headlines."

Sharing an amused glance with Winter, I marvel at how naturally we’ve slipped into this playful banter with our friends. It almost makes me forget why we ever stopped being us in the first place. That's not true. I know what went wrong, and I’m committed to moving heaven and earth to fix everything I broke. Last night might have been fucking amazing, but I know sex was never our problem. That’s one thing we always got right.

The conversation shifts to tales of other celebrity encounters—a pop singer here, an actor there—each story growing wilder than the last. But none feel as wild as playing footsie under a table, surrounded by friends who think they know us.

I draw circles now at the center of Winter’s palm—a silent message between our intertwined fingers. In this crowded room filled with voices, laughter, and clinking glasses, our quiet communication means more than any words we could speak aloud. I can’t wait to be alone with her again.

As plates are cleared and dessert is served amidst enthusiastic conversations about tomorrow’s nuptials, I lean in close once again and whisper in her ear, “Leave your car here. Let’s go for a drive.”

“I have the bachelorette party,” Winter reminds me.

“They can wait. I can’t.”