Joss cuts the potatoes into fries with swift, surgical precision. “You’re all right, mate. Life’s too short.”
“Skin on fries?”
“Better for you.”
I believe him. I watch him test the oil, ignoring the dial that tells him the default temperature, and lower the first basket of french fries. He cooks them halfway, then returns to his box of tricks. He pulls out ground beef and loses himself in shaping burgers. I wonder if he’s forgotten about the grill, then he clicks his teeth mid burger and abandons it to light the flame.
I track every tiny flex in his long arms. “What else do they make with hemp?”
“In general, or at Farmer McHotstuff’s place?”
“Who?”
Joss’s impish grin returns. “The farmer was fit as fuck.”
It’s not a phrase I’m familiar with, but I get the gist. “What makes a dude fit as fuck?”
“Depends on the day.”
“For him or for you?”
“For me. I don’t really have a type, but this guy was strong and rugged, like you.”
“Like me?”
“You’re strong and rugged, Kai. Whatever else is going on in that pretty head of yours, you can’t deny the truth.”
I’m too bamboozled by his company to figure out if there’s a compliment in there somewhere. And too fixated on the rugged farmer who’s turned his head.
Already.
Dude’s been here five fuckin’ minutes.
So? Rowan bangs a new chick every city he goes.
But Joss isn’t my stock-trading alphahole of a brother. He’s—
Joss nudges me. “That wasn’t your cue to get sucked into introspection.”
“How do you know that’s what I’m doing?”
“Psychic.”
I’m glad he’s not. My thoughts are a cacophony of things I don’t understand right now. Like, how blue his eyes are. How his hair has gone wavy since it air-dried after he took a shower this morning.
How he’s staring at me as if he has nothing else to worry about.
Nothing else todo.
You’re distracting him. “Sorry.”
Joss’s stare intensifies. “What for?”
“Distracting you.”
“Mate, someone sneezing thirty miles away could distract me. Give me the choice between you and a stranger’s allergies, I’ll choose you every time.”
“Erm…thanks? I think?”
