11 | Under My Skin
1228 Words
Nick
Getting ready shouldn’t take this long.
But I’ve changed shirts three times. Buttoned and unbuttoned a collar that suddenly feels too tight. Tried and failed to fix my hair even though it doesn’t look any different no matter what I do.
This isn’t a date. It’s a rehearsal dinner for someone else’s wedding. My best friends wedding.
I settle on a dark gray shirt. Rolled sleeves. No tie. It looks good. Clean. Casual, but not lazy. Like I belong in a room where people are going to pretend they’re not judging every move.
By the time I make it down to the lounge area, Andrew’s already at the bar nursing a whiskey and grinning like he knows something I don’t. But I can't blame the guy, he's marrying the love of his life in a couple of days. He has every right to smile like that.
He looks over seeing me approach and smirks. “Took you long enough. What, did you shave your soul?”
“Had to make sure I looked appropriately miserable,” I say, tugging at the collar of my shirt.
Andrew chuckles. “You planning on talking to her tonight or just practicing your brooding-from-across-the-room thing?”
“I don’t brood.”
He laughs, a little too hard. I glare at him. “You absolutely brood. You’ve got the jaw clench, the intense stares, the moody lighting.”
“Are you describing me or a Batman reboot?”
He shrugs. “Same energy. You and Stella still doing the Cold War thing, or are we back to repressed s****l tension?”
I throw back the first half of my drink and let it sit for a beat before answering. “I’m not sure it ever stopped being both.”
Andrew nods like he gets it. Which, annoyingly, he probably does. He has watched us dance around each other since day one and has always been team Stella.
“Still,” he says, “you could try speaking words. Those are helpful.”
“She doesn’t want to talk,” I shrug, raising my hand for another glass from the bartender. He nods in acknowledgment.
“She might. Or she might want to kill you. Either way, you’ll get closure.”
I scoff. “Thanks, Dr. Phil, real helpful.”
“Hey,” he lifts his glass, “I’m just here to witness the fireworks, so don’t disappoint me.”
I roll my eyes and throw the rest of my drink, grabbing my new one and wandering away from Andrew. I love him, but theres only so much I can handle. When he's this happy I can't help but be jealous.
The rehearsal dinner is already in full swing. Warm lighting. Polished cutlery. Too many flowers and honestly, the smell is a little overwhelming. It all feels like a wedding catalog exploded in the middle of a lodge. Typical Sarah.
People are settling in. Sarah’s buzzing around greeting everyone. Grace is already holding a glass of wine like it’s loaded.
I’m mid-conversation with one of the groomsmen when it happens.
She walks in and everything else fades away.
Stella doesn’t make a grand entrance. She never has to. She just exists in a room and somehow owns it without trying.
But tonight, she walks through the doors like she doesn’t give a single damn who’s watching.
The sway of her hips and the confidence in her strides, she knows exactly what she's doing in that dress.
It’s navy. Skin-tight. Hits just below mid-thigh. Long sleeves. High neckline. Nothing overtly revealing. But somehow, it’s worse than if she’d worn something flashy.
It’s the kind of dress that makes your brain short-circuit.
Because it doesn’t just beg for attention. It demands it and f**k me, I'm enamored.
My grip tightens around my glass as I watch her walk in, hair pinned up, loose strands framing her face. Her makeup is soft, but sharp enough to kill.
She doesn’t look at me. Not even once.
And that makes it worse.
Andrew walks up beside me and follows my line of sight and whistles under his breath. “Well, damn,” a heavy hand lands on my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I mutter.
“You good?”
“Nope.”
“Cool. Let me know when you plan to explode. I want a front-row seat.”
I don't even know what he means by that but I don't care enough to ask.
Because I’m too busy watching the way she laughs at something Grace says and brushes her fingers along Sarah’s shoulder as she sits down like she belongs here.
Like nothing is wrong.
Like I’m not right here.
We’re seated on opposite ends of the table. I get stuck next to Sarah’s aunt, who wants to know what I do and whether I’m seeing anyone. I give polite answers and try not to track every movement Stella makes across the table.
But it’s impossible.
She’s magnetic.
She doesn’t even look in my direction.
And I can’t stop looking.
Halfway through dinner, she crosses her legs, and the slit in her dress shifts just enough to show the line of her thigh.
It’s brief.
Too brief.
But now I’m not thinking about dessert.
I’m thinking about the way her skin would feel under my hand.
And that’s a problem.
We lock eyes once when the server pours wine. Just for a beat.
She doesn’t smile.
Doesn’t flinch.
Just meets my gaze like she’s daring me to say something.
Then she looks away and starts a conversation with Grace.
I can feel eyes burning a hole into my skull. I glance sideways and yep. Sarah’s staring me down.
Not angry. Just… curious. Perceptive in that unsettling way she gets when she’s playing mind reader.
She doesn’t say anything. Just raises one eyebrow like she’s watching a live experiment unfold and I’m the rat too dumb to stop pressing the shock button.
I shift in my seat and glance down at my plate, suddenly hyper-aware of everything. The tightness in my jaw, the heat still crawling up the back of my neck, the way my leg has been bouncing under the table for the past twenty minutes.
But she doesn’t look away. She doesn’t need to.
The message is loud and clear. You’re not hiding it as well as you think, Cross.
And she’s right. I’m left trying to remember what the hell I was supposed to be doing before she walked in.
By the time we make it through toasts and tiny desserts, I’m on my third glass of wine and barely hanging on.
Whiskey and wine is never a good idea. Especially not when she’s here, looking like sin wrapped in navy silk.
She gets up with the others to head toward the fireside lounge. She laughs at something Sarah says, full and warm.
She doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t glance my way, not even a simple nod of recognition.
But as she walks past, her arm brushes mine. Bare skin against fabric. Heat to heat. It’s not an accident, and even if it was, my body doesn’t care.
Because I feel it, low, hot and immediate and I know she does too because she doesn’t look back. Somehow, that says more than anything she could’ve said out loud.
Like nothing happened. But it did. It always does.
- Writer
