He was the best friend I’d ever had. He deserved better.
“I’m sorry, uh, for that,” I repeated. “I got caught up in… it… I…”
“You’re less sober than you look,” Ward said delicately, and dammit, he evensmiledat me. Another one of those kind, good smiles.
“Sure,” I agreed, swallowing down the guilt at what felt like a lie.
I was sober enough to know what I was doing. I’d just been weak, and selfish, and that shouldn’t have surprised anyone, least of all me.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, looking down at my shoes.
Ward laughed. “Relax. Hard to believe, I know, but worse things have happened than you kissing me,” he teased.
Or maybe he wasn’t teasing, maybe kissing himhadmade it to his list of worst things that’d ever happened.
Probably not.
Maybe not, anyway.
“Time to tuck you into bed,” Ward said, nudging me toward the car. “You think you’re sorrynow, wait until the hangover you’re gonna have in the morning.”
* * *
I wasn’tnearlyhungover enough when I woke to the sound of birdsong and the smell of bacon cooking. Not to justify kissing Ward like that.
The potential for bacon was enough to get me to roll out of the ridiculously soft bed that I might’ve spent the entire day in otherwise.
When I stumbled into the kitchen Ward was busy as a bee there, dressed in a fitted tee and sweatpants that hung low on his hips and hugged his ass, humming softly as he worked.
I shouldnothave been looking at Ward’s ass.
“Bacon?” I asked, tentatively hopeful that some of it was earmarked for me.
If I was focused on the bacon, maybe I wouldn’t be focused on how effortlessly hot Ward was this morning.
Ward tossed a grin over his shoulder. “Sleeping beauty awakens,” he said.
I snorted. I hadn’t looked in the mirror yet, but my morning routine had fifteen steps, of which I’d completed exactly zero.Beauty, I was pretty sure, wasn’t a word that could be applied to me right now.
“How’s your head?” Ward asked, producing a fancy bottle of fresh orange juice from the fridge.
“Umm. Fine,” I lied, padding over to the counter as Ward poured a tall glass of orange juice and shoved it over to me.
“Rehydrate,” he said. “You’ll feel better.”
We clearly weren’t talking about last night. Or maybe as far as Ward was concerned, we’d already talked about it. There wasn’t anything more to say.
I’d kissed him, I’d apologized, he’d accepted my apology, and now we were moving on. And he was making me breakfast.
Because he was apparently determined to be literally fucking perfect.
“You still like your eggs sunny side up?” Ward asked, handling the frying pan like a pro.
“You remembered,” I said, blinking at him. The last time Ward made me eggs it’d been the morning after prom, when I’d passed out on his couch after he’d driven me home from the afterparty.
That was nearly ten years ago.
Ward shrugged, his t-shirt stretching over broad shoulders as he moved. “Not hard to remember,” he said. “I don’t make eggs for just anyone.”
