His big, lopsided smile went nowhere. “Agreed.”
Patrick took the other end of her couch and it groaned ominously under his weight, as it always did. She’d gotten it for free on Facebook Marketplace and told him a million times that it would break beneath him.
Focus, idiot.
“So…” she said, her stomach churning. “I’m so sorry for getting drunk and being sick in front of you and…”
He raised his brows, his infuriating smile growing even wider. “And?”
Her chest grew tight. So much for him forgetting or pretending she hadn’t hit on him. On the contrary, he seemed amused by her terrible behaviour. Cheryl drank more coffee. Her hands were shaking. Why did he smell so good lounging on her shitty couch in jeans and a hoodie? Had he always smelled this good? Like laundry detergent and sunshine?
“I’m sorry about everything else,” she mumbled. “It’ll never happen again. It shouldn’t have happened at all. I’m sorry.”
There was a pause in which her pulse spiked to heart-attack levels. Patrick leaned back on the couch like a talk show celebrity. He was still smiling. “So, I have some thoughts. Do you have anything else you want to say first?”
Tell him you can’t be friends anymore, an internal voice hissed. Tell him you’re moving to Vietnam and your friendship is over.
Cheryl tried to sip her coffee and found she’d finished it. She pretended to drink anyway.
“So, I think you might be done talking?”
Her couch was too small. Even at opposite ends, she and Patrick were almost touching. He was too big. Too male for her apartment. How had she never noticed that before?
“I know you were pretty drunk last night,” Patrick said. “But I don’t think either of us meant for the night to go that way—”
Cheryl couldn’t handle hearing her crimes repeated backward. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should be in jail, I’m so sorry. I’m never drinking again. I just—”
“Wait,” Patrick held up his hands. “What are you actually apologising for? Just being drunk or…?”
Oh God, he was going to make her say it. “For being all flirty and…” She had a flash of herself cupping her tits, doing everything she could to lure him onto her bed. “… hitting on you.”
“Oh, that. Yeah, I’m not worried about that.”
“Um… What?”
“I thought you were beating yourself up for being drunk. I don’t care that you cracked onto me.”
“You don’t… care?”
“Nope.” He shifted and her couch gave another pitiful moan. His expression was very different from the Patrick she knew. She was suddenly very aware a six-foot-four football player with hands the size of hubcaps was sitting next to her. She leant back slightly.
“Can I help you, or…?”
She’d meant it as a tease, a way to re-establish boundaries, but it came out all whispery.
Her best friend’s eyes locked on hers, all hard and golden brown like an eagle. “You can.”
“Ahh, how?”
His gaze intensified. “We’re done fucking around, KitKat. It’s time to find out.”
“I… What do you mean?”
He smiled, and that was different too.
“I mean I’m into you, KitKat. And since you got pissed and tried to fuck me last night, I’m gonna call it and say you’re into me too. So, let’s get together.”
Cheryl’s hangover rose over her like a hood. “P-Patrick, no! We’re friends!”
