And completely freeze at the sight before me.
My entire body locks up, because there he is, standing in the middle of the room, completely shirtless with sweatpants slung low on his hips. I guess he took one for the team and used the downstairs shower, because his hair is damp, curling over his forehead, and droplets of water glisten over his skin.
I’m staring—I know I’m staring—but I can’t help it when such a perfect physical specimen is standing right in front of me. Of course, I’ve seen the lines of his muscles through his shirt, felt the strength and definition in every hug, and even caught a peek of his abs that morning in his bed. But my eyes roam anyway over his remarkable build, lingering on the impressive span of his chest, both pecs flawlessly shaped, before lowering to the cut lines of his upper abs and obliques. And don’t even get me started on his arms, the corded biceps and sinewy forearms I’ve seen on numerous occasions so much more overwhelming with the full picture on display.
He’s typing something out on his phone, and when he glances up at me, his smile falters at whatever expression is on my face. His eyes stare intently into mine, a glimmer of something just a little wicked sparking in their dark depths. My body flushes hot, cheeks reddening, and the look on his face is quickly covered up by something teasing. “Remember to breathe, Ives.”
“Oh,” I squeak, coming back to my senses. I whirl around, his deep chuckle only increasing my mortification. Seriously. I’d give nothing more than to melt into the carpet right now becausewhat was I thinking,ogling his body like one of his pathetic fan girls? If a guy did that to me…if a guy did that to me, I’d feel violated.
“Okay, I’m decent,” he says, voice teasing. “You can turn around now.”
I don’t want to turn around. I want the ground to split open and swallow me, but unfortunately, I have nowhere to hide.
Slowly, I turn to face him, unable to meet his eyes. He’s wearing a shirt now, thank god, and I focus on the spot just above his shoulder. “I-I’m so sorry,” I stutter out.
“Don’t be,” he says easily. “After years in a locker-room, my modesty’s long gone.” When I don’t smile, his brow knits. “Hey, why are you so upset? It’s not a big deal.”
“I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I don’t want you to think I’m some stupid groupie only hanging out with you cause you’re hot.”
He blinks, and then his mouth cracks into a slow smile. “You think I’m hot?”
“That’s not the point,” I tell him. “Best friends don’t eye fuck each other’s bodies. Period.”
He chokes. “Did you just say ‘eye fuck’?”
I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean. It’s degrading.”
“Ivy, I promise I know you’re not a groupie or…whatever you’re suggesting here.”
“But—”
“You can ogle my body as much as you want, and I swear to you I will not be offended. I can take my shirt off right now?—”
“No!” I blurt. And then narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t you dare.”
He snickers, resting both hands on my shoulders and turning me around to face the door. “Plus, I only have abs right now because I’m fucking starving. You should see me when I’m bloated.”
“Yeah, I doubt it makes much of a difference,” I grumble, but let him steer me out of his bedroom, thankfully dropping the subject.
As part of our “celebration” for getting through the first speech, Wes insists on making me his specialty dish. He’s already stocked up on all the ingredients he needs for chicken piccata, so I stay out of the way while he flutters around the kitchen.
I watch in awe as he works, pounding and breading the chicken before cooking it expertly in a cast-iron skillet. He mixes the sauce from memory, leaving an enormous mess as he goes, but his passion and concentration are endearing to watch.
When the food is ready, he sets the plate in front of me with a satisfied smile and urges me to take a bite.
“Well?” he asks as I put a forkful into my mouth.
I chew slowly, my brows shooting up in surprise. I’ve never tried chicken piccata before, but the acidity from the lemon, the saltiness from the capers, and the richness from the butter work together somehow, creating the perfect comfort meal for a winter day like today. “Now I know why you’re so obsessed with this dish.”
His eyes search my face. “You like it?”
I nod, smiling at him. “It’s really good, Wes. I think you’ve perfected it.”
His face brightens at the praise, and he digs into his own plate. We devour the meal in comfortable silence, simply enjoying each other’s company.
When we’re done, I help him clean up the messy kitchen, and then we settle in the living room to watchThe Return of the King.
Do I have homework to do? Sure. Do I care at the moment? Not really. I’m happy just sitting here with Wes, ignoring all responsibility.
