"And so am I." He shifts, turning toward me, his expression softening. "My job as your best friend is to spoil you. Feed you things you love. Make sure you're happy. And seriously, Caroline—you don't need to change a thing."
I roll my eyes, trying to fight off the heat creeping up my cheeks, but he's not letting me off the hook.
"I mean it. You've got curves half those girls at school would kill for." His grin tilts, teasing, but his eyes stay earnest. "You're healthy. Strong. And beautiful. The kind of beautiful that doesn't need fixing."
My throat tightens.
"You're perfect the way you are," he says firmly. Then, softer, like it's just for me: "Your body's perfect. You're perfect. And if you can't believe anyone else, at least believe me. I'm your best friend. And I would never lie to you about that."
His hand comes up, brushing against my cheek. The touch is so gentle I almost forget to breathe.
"Tell me you understand," he says quietly.
My heart pounds so hard it feels like it's echoing off the walls.
My eyes sting like I might cry, because how am I supposed to survive words like that coming from him?
I nod slowly. I can't trust my voice right now.
This is why I don't crack when people call me fat or ugly. Because Zach Westbrook makes me feel like I'm beautiful.
Notjustbeautiful. His beautiful.
See what I mean when I say he feeds my delusional tendencies? He says things like"you're perfect"and looks at me like I'm the only person in the galaxy, and then expects me to just... file that underbest friend talk?
Best friend my ass.
No best friend tells you your body is perfect while brushing his hand against your cheek like that. No best friend makes you feel like you could combust on the spot from a single look.
And yet—here I am. Melting into his touch. Believing every word. Building entire love stories in my head off scraps of affection he probably doesn't even realize he's giving.
...God, I'm so screwed.
Zach suddenly swings his legs off the bed. I track his movement with my eyes, already bracing for him to head home. Makes sense—it's late. A glance at my clock tells me it's 11:38 P.M.
But then—oh no. Ohno.
He grabs the hem of his shirt and peels it right off.
My brain short-circuits.What the actual hell.
I blink. Fast. Like maybe if I blink enough, my retinas will reboot and he'll magically be wearing clothes again. Nope. Still shirtless. Still shirtless-Zach. Still my best friend standing in my room like a freaking Calvin Klein model who accidentally wandered into suburbia.
"Uh—" my throat closes up. My mouth is Sahara-dry. I practically choke on air. "Wh-what are you d-doing?"
He doesn't even look at me. Just tosses his shirt onto the sofa in the corner and starts unbuckling his belt.
My eyes go saucer-wide.Oh my God. He's multiplying crimes.
"What else?" he says casually, jeans sliding off like this isnormal. "Getting ready for bed."
"Bed?" My voice hits a pitch only dogs can hear. "You're sleeping here?" ...Half-naked? I want to add.
Finally, he turns.
And, well. Fuck.
Broad chest, abs that look carved, tan skin glistening just slightly from the leftover post-game heat. The sharp V-cut disappearing under his boxers. His legs—long, solid muscle from years of hockey. He's basically a living, breathing sports ad.
