“Okay, but why isn’t it on?” I ask stupidly. I know why it’s not on. Who wants to wear a fucking bra to bed? Not me.
I hear her step up to the door and then open it. She pokes her head in and says, “I never wear a bra to bed. Breaker, I’ve hung my bra there before.”
Ehhh, has she, though? I think I would have noticed, especially with the cup size banging a hole in my brain, that she has big tits. She has big tits.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks, her hand falling to my chest.
“Whoa, hey there, watch out, heh, heh.” I let out a breathy laugh. “Hands to ourselves, let’s remember that.”
“What?” she asks, her face drenched in confusion.
“Um.” I swallow hard. “You just startled me because your hand was cold.”
“You’re wearing a shirt.”
I glance down at my chest. “Oh yeah, well, the fabric must be thin. Brrr, maybe go warm up those frigid paws of yours, don’t want to catch a cold.”
“It’s the middle of summer.” She takes a step back. “If you don’t want me to stay over because you have something else going on, then just tell me, Breaker.”
“No, I have nothing else going on.”
What are you doing, you moron? That was your out!
“Okay, well, then I’ll just let you get ready for bed.”
She moves back toward the bedroom, and I shut the bathroom door behind her.
Jesus Christ.
Get it together, man. You’re better than this. You’re smoother than this. You’re Breaker fucking Cane. Stop acting like a total nitwit, strap on a goddamn pair, and be the best friend this woman needs.
And for fuck’s sake, stop embarrassing yourself.
I take the next few minutes to go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and create a mental wall that is completely impenetrable. Mark my words, when I slip into that bed, there will be no—and I mean NO—romantic thoughts of my best friend. Platonic. That’s what we’re going for. All the platonic-ness one can muster.
Is that even a word?
Doesn’t matter. That’s what’s happening.
Because if anything, I’m a Cane, and Canes are born with the crafty ability to hold strong, to not buckle, and to rely on their mental fortitude to get them through any situation.
There. Pep talk complete.
I exit the bathroom, turn off the light, and head over to the bed where Lia is already resting under the covers, her beautiful, silky hair fanned out against the dark of my pillowcase like a fucking . . . NO!
No thoughts of any fanning hair and how it’s a beautiful contrast against the navy pillowcase.
No goddamn poetic sonnets based around how the moonlight looks on her Irish alabaster skin.
Nothing.
Focus, Cane.
I move toward my side of the bed and ask, “Uh, you comfortable?”
“Always. I love your bed,” she says as she snuggles in even closer.
“Good,” I answer as I slip under the covers and turn off the light, letting the moon illuminate the space through the sheer gray curtains hanging over the window.
