So instead, I slant a look at the offensive machine. “W-who needs a vacuum with features like this? Sure, parents with small kids who spill everything. But that's the obvious target market, right? If Butler wanted the obvious, they w-wouldn't be looking at a new agency. They want something fresh. In a world of R-roombas and automated cleaning, why would someone buy this? Why—”
I break off when I glance over at Keegan to see him grinning at me.
“What?”
He smirks. “You're cute when you're brainstorming.”
I stick out my tongue at him. “Shut up.”
“I'm serious.”
“Sure,” I snark.
I'm about to get back to glaring at the vacuum—after all, the clock is ticking until DoorDash arrives—when he reaches out and tucks a lock of my mousey brown hair behind my ear.
Awareness of how close we are, lying here on the floor beside one another, hits like a comet. Keegan is my friend. Nothing more.
Still, there are moments when even I can't pretend Keegan isn't stupidly hot.
This is one of those moments. When we're standing, he's more than six inches taller than my five-five and change. The bonus of all those extra inches is that I don't have a reason to gaze longingly into his eyes very often. But in this position, we are dangerously close to soulful-gaze territory. This close, I can distinguish each fleck of blue in his otherwise gray eyes. With a lock of blond hair dangling across his perfect cheekbones? Gah! I have to force myself to look away.
Unfortunately, when I drop my gaze, it lands on his bicep. The way he's propped up on his elbow makes his muscles bunch and his bicep looks huge. Like, strain-the-fabric-of-his-t-shirt huge.
Sure, he works hard, but he doesn't actually bench press kegs for a living, right?
“Hey.” Keegan snaps his fingers in front of my face.
I look up to see him grinning.
“Eyes up here, Glasses.”
Shit.
He caught me ogling his arms like one of those groupies that hangs out at the bar all the time, hoping he'll notice them.
Keegan and I are too close for me to be embarrassed, so I tease him back.
I reach out a finger and poke his bicep. “What's up with this? When did you get all jacked?”
He jerks back when I poke his arm because, although he hates to admit it, he's crazy ticklish. “Hey, watch it.”
He tries to grab my finger in his hand, but I move on from his bicep to his pectorals, poking at his muscles like I'm checking the consistency of rising dough. Except his chest doesn't give at all.
He is one-hundred percent steely, hard muscles.
“Seriously. What's going on here? Have you started taking steroids? Do I need to watch out for 'roid rage?”
Keegan clears his throat.
My gaze snaps to his, surprised to see his pupils dilated. And to realize that I'm no longer poking his muscles like they're rising dough, but trailing my fingers along them as if I'm bewitched by his chest.
Shit.
I snatch my hand back, sitting up into a cross-legged position as if there's nothing weird about stroking my best friend's chest.
Keegan clears his throat again. “Meg, I—”
I hop to my feet, snatching up the offending vacuum, and carting it off. “W-when do you even have time to work out?” I call from the hall as I shove the vacuum into the closet by the stairs.
