I roll my eyes. Asshole.
Me
Yep. You should try it.
Cash
No fucking thank you.
I set my phone on the coffee table and look up just in time to see Hollis walking down the hall. My stomach does this annoying little flip at the mere sight of him.
It’s an epidemic, this attraction I have for him, because it’s getting worse day after day.
Yesterday, he bent over in the kitchen to get a dish towel off the floor, and I swear I had to hold back a moan. His ass in athletic shorts should be illegal.
And ever since the club, when he simultaneously turned down my request for a kiss and then promised a real one at some future date, I’ve been a mess.
What does that mean?
Does he like me?
Does he want more?
And aren’t those stupid questions to ponder over in regard to your own freaking husband?
I try not to think about it. That’s healthy, right?
I watch as he walks down the hallway in gray sweats and a hoodie. He’s been holed up in my room all day. I let him borrow the space to work because it’s private and quiet. He rarely uses it since this project mostly involves meeting people in person, whether they are contractors or pretty club owners.
Okay, so I looked her up. Whatever.
But today, he’s home, and since it’s Monday and the bar is closed, we have a whole night to ourselves.
He’s requested a movie marathon—eighties themed, of course. I still remember a similar night back in high school, where we were all arguing over which one to watch first—Back to the FutureorFerris Bueller’s Day Off—and my dad turned to Hollis and asked which one he liked better, and he sheepishly answered he hadn’t seen either.
The truth was, he hadn’t seen any of them.
We sort of made it our mission to make sure he got caught up on all the cult classics after that. You truly haven’t lived until you’ve sobbed into a bucket of popcorn during the swamp of sadness scene inThe NeverEnding Story.
“All done?” I ask as he joins me on the couch.
“Yeah, I think so,” he replies, leaning his head back on the cushion. His messy curls frame his face, and I resist the urge to reach out and touch them. “I sent everything over to Jonas to look over. He’ll let me know what he wants to do next.”
His boss appears to have a very hands-off approach. So far, this is the most I’ve heard him talk about the man who also happens to be his best friend.
“Is he going to come check on the progress at some point?” I ask.
He gives me a sideways glance and smirks. “Don’t trust in my abilities, Pres?”
“What?” I exclaim. “No, I just mean—” He chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. I push him playfully on the shoulder. “You’re mean.”
“He trusts me,” he answers. “And we talk every day.”
“You do?” That was news to me.
“We do,” he confirms.
“Do you…” I hesitate. “Talk about me?”
