“We don’t say those things to each other or do those things . . .”
“You might not, but I do now.” He lifts from the couch. “Want something to drink?”
I watch him casually move around his apartment, grabbing a cup, filling it with ice, and then pouring a Gatorade into it.
When I don’t answer him, he grabs another cup, fills it with ice, and tops it off with the rest of the Gatorade. Eyes on me, he brings the drink over and offers it to me.
For some reason, my body registers just how close he is, how much taller he is than me, how much more muscular . . .
My internal body temperature spikes all over again.
“Here,” he says softly.
“I didn’t say I wanted a drink.”
“After all the panting you just did in your bedroom, you’re going to want the electrolytes.” He smirks, and I needle him in the stomach, causing him to laugh.
I take the drink from him and follow him into the living room, where I sit on the opposite side of the couch.
“Trying to keep your hands to yourself?” he asks. “I get it.”
“No, I’m trying to keep you away.”
“If that were the case, you wouldn’t have come over here.”
“As if you would have allowed me to stay at my apartment,” I scoff before taking a drink of the lime Gatorade. Ugh, that’s refreshing. I really did pant a lot. My mouth feels dry.
“I would have if that’s what you needed, but clearly, by you being here, you needed . . . me.” He smirks again and sips from his glass.
“Umm, arrogant much?”
“Nah, just telling it like it is.”
“Then tell me this, what the hell are you doing?”
He glances down at himself, taking in his person, and then back at me. “Looks like I’m enjoying a cool drink with my friend. What are you doing?”
“Stop playing around,” I say. “Tell me what’s going on? Are we . . . are we friends with benefits or something? Because that never works out. Trust me.”
“Do you think we’re friends with benefits?” he asks, staying as elusive as ever.
“No. I think we’re friends, and one of us has lost our mind.”
“It’s okay,” he says, winking. “I’m sure you’ll get your head on straight again soon.”
I grind my teeth together. “I was talking about you. You’re the one who’s lost his mind.”
He scratches the side of his head as he says, “Huh, odd. I don’t feel like I have. I feel pretty normal actually.”
“Oh my God, Breaker,” I shout. “You’re starting to make me mad.”
“I can sense that. How can I make you less mad?”
“By telling me what the hell is going on? I mean . . . do you like me or something?” The question sounds so childish coming off my lips that I hate myself for asking.
“I’ve always liked you, Lia,” he answers.
“I mean . . . romantically.”
