“She’s helping,” Man Bun answered, frowning incredulously. “What’s your problem with yourhotneighbor?”
I beamed, flattered. “Thanks. You’re hot too.”
Man Bun grinned. “I know, but thanks.”
“No!” Callan released a hand from the sofa to point at us. “You are not friends.”
Shrugging, I looked up at Man Bun. “I don’t know. It feels like we could be besties.”
“Definitely,” he agreed. “I’m Baird, by the way. I’m the Caley goalie.”
That makes sense with his height and size, I thought, pretending I knew anything about football.
“Not that anyone asked, but I’m John.” Middle Guy smirked at me. Now that he was closer, I was surprised to discover we had remarkably similar coloring. Olive skin, dark blond hair, pale blue eyes. We could pass for siblings. John cocked his head, smirking, as if he’d noted the similarities between us too. “I play center forward.”
I had no idea what that meant but nodded. “And you’re American or Canadian.”
“Hey, most people just say American. I’m from Toronto.” He dropped the lasttin Toronto.
“And you’re Beth?” Baird asked.
“And my arms are killing me,” Callan huffed. “Didn’tBethsay she was running late for a facial?”
“I never said that.”
“Aye, you did.”
“No, I said I was running late. You added in the facial.”
“Facial, nails, whatever. Can we just get my fucking sofa upstairs?”
“Wow. Nice way to talk to your friends.”
“You’re not my friend.”
A tiny flicker of something I wouldn’t call hurt zinged in my chest. I gave him a tight smile. “Baird and John are.”
“Up!” Callan pulled the sofa with such force we had no choice but to follow him. Finally, we were on my landing.
And they had another floor to go.
“Give me a minute, my arm’s going numb.” John lowered the sofa to the landing and all of us stepped away from it.
Callan and I finally came face-to-face for the first time in eight years.
He wore a T-shirt that hung loose on his torso but tight around his strong biceps, a pair of jeans, and pristine black trainers I knew were Dior because my younger brother, Luke, was obsessed with designer clothing. Callan Keen could wear a bin bag and make it look sexy as hell. I could understand why he got so many ad opportunities. Just over six feet, athletic, wore clothes well. And there was the matter of his face.
That bloody face.
It was one of the many reasons Callan Keen had been my first big crush.
The only difference now was that he sported sexy stubble, making him look a wee bit more rugged around the edges. Those familiar light green eyes that once looked at me with laughter and tenderness now hardened with wariness. Callan crossed his arms over his chest, and I tried not to let my attention stray to the flexing biceps. There was no need for him to know I still thought he was gorgeous. “So. You live here?”
I gestured to his sofa. “So. You paid money for that?”
Baird gave a bark of laughter that he turned into a pretend cough at Callan’s betrayed glare. “Must be dust floating around.” He patted his chest dramatically.
Amusement trembled on my lips. I couldn’t say I didn’t like Callan’s friends.
