Hungover.
She spots me and freezes for half a second. Then she straightens and walks over like she’s bracing herself.
“Morning,” she says, voice quiet but steady.
“Morning,” I reply. I keep my tone normal, like my brain hasn’t been looping on her mouth for the last twenty-four hours and I hadn’t already jerked off twice this morning thinking about her peachy ass. “You look like hell.”
She lets out a breath that might be a laugh. “I feel worse.”
I gesture with my mug towards the coffee. “Drink. Then eat. Prospects went heavy on grease. They’re good for that, if nothing else.”
She smiles faintly and reaches for a mug, holding on with both hands like it’s a lifeline. She takes a sip, then sighs in relief.
“Oh wow. That’s strong.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But it works.”
She fixes herself a plate and follows me to one of the tables at the edge of the room, away from the others. It’s not private, but it’s quieter.
We sit.
For a few seconds, all there is between us is the scrape of forks and the low hum of morning noise. I can feel her tension from here, like she’s wound tight under that hoodie.
Finally, she clears her throat.
“About last night,” she says.
I look up and meet her eyes. She looks embarrassed but determined.
“I’m sorry,” she continues. “I shouldn’t have put you in that position. I was drunk, and that’s not an excuse. I just… I don’t want things to be weird between us.”
“They’re not weird,” I say immediately.
She studies my face, like she’s checking to see if I mean it. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure.”
She exhales slowly, some of the tightness leaving her shoulders. “Good. Because I really like being here. I like you. And I don’t want to ruin that because I made a bad call.”
I swallow. There it is again—it’s almost like she thinks I wouldn’t want her.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” I tell her. “You were drunk. I wasn’t. End of story.”
She frowns slightly. “It still wasn’t fair to you.”
“Nat,” I say, keeping my voice low, “if you hadn’t been drunk, and if you weren’t my best friend’s sister, I probably wouldn’t have been so gentlemanly about it.”
Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth.
She looks at me, really looks at me, and something softens in her expression.
“Oh,” she says quietly.
“Yeah.” Then, because I can’t help myself, I add, “And there’s no ‘probably’ about it.”
A small smile tugs at her mouth. “I can live with that.”
She takes another bite, then glances up again. “Rick left early?”
