“Kennedy.”
His scratchy, soft tone has a pool of want building in my gut. It would be too easy to take his hand and tug him closer, chest-to-chest, face-to-face, my hands cupping his throat as I pull him in for a kiss.
Alarm bells sound like a family of birds at sunrise, and I groan as I pull away from him.
The stern look I give him isn’t as effective when my cock is this hard. “You’re not helping.”
His innocent expression looks genuine, but I know better. At least, I’m starting to.
Ziggy isn’t the sweet, shy guy I first thought he was.
Andfuck, it makes me like him even more. I want to explore that side of him and see how far it goes.
I don’t realize I’ve stepped forward again until his eyebrows lift in interest.
“Wait. No. Dammit. You’re messing with my head.”
His laugh is almost enough to make me say screw it, but I hold strong. It’s only been two days since we slept together, so of course my wires are bound to be crossed. And twisted. And knotted beyond recognition. My body remembers his body being responsible for one hell of an orgasm, so biology—probably—is trying to make it happen again.
After a little bit of distance, friends won’t be an issue.
We enjoy each other’s company enough to wait it out. To get through this rocky patch. So long as I manage to survive my instincts.
This will be the one relationship I don’t mess up by being tunnel-visioned on the future.
Friends.
We’re friends.
Good friends.
If I say it enough, maybe in sixty years, it will stick.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
ZIGGY
I’m not a sexy guy. I’m not even anexyguy. The way Kennedy looks at me almost makes me think I can pull it off though.
I’m working more than ever in a thinly disguised effort to spend time with him. He’s nice enough not to call me out on it, but I know he knows. Kennedy isn’t an idiot, and he proves it every time we’re together. Which has been almost all day, every day this week. And the more time that grows since we slept together, the more the tension between us is suffocating.
I lean against the side of the house, taking a breather, and as usual, he finds me a few minutes later.
“Look at you, slacking off.”
I flip him the bird, smile painted on my face.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to get away from me. Way to hurt my feelings.” He presses his hand to his wide chest like he’s emphasizing the point. “I thought we were friends.”
He’s not trying hard to act convincing, which is good because it wouldn’t work anyway. One, because I enjoy the attention, andtwo, because while most people don’t notice me, I notice them. I’ve gotten really good at reading people.
I’m not sure if it’s a leftover survival instinct from reading my parents’ moods and knowing when it was safe to appear or safer to hide, but the smallest things are obvious to me. I usually know within minutes of meeting someone whether I can trust them or not.
Kennedy has always had trustworthy written all over him.
He leans against the house beside me, shoulder against the shiplap paneling, his focus on me. Giving in to his begging for attention, I turn my head his way, and this wash of nerves floods my gut when we make eye contact.
