“No. I mean…like.”
“Oh.” My brow puckers. “He’s not interested in me that way.”
“Which isn’t an answer,” he gripes.
“It kind of is,” I reason. “If… before…this…” Whatever the hell this is.
The glimpses of Zach today as a boyfriend don’t match up with how I’ve seen him behave around every other temporary girlfriend he’s had.
Trust me, the man’s body count makes that serial killer who knocks off pedos in the tristate area look low.
I get that things would be different between us, considering our friendship, but this is all moving so fast.
The only place Zach is ever this fast is on the ice, never in relationships, and it’s messing with my equilibrium.
If he picks up on my concern, his amused smile doesn’t show it. “Thisbeing?”
More air gusts from my lips. “Us.”
That appears to satisfy him because he hums and grabs the bag of popcorn from the microwave.
Well, that was easy enough.
Even if it is a lie.
Fine, not necessarily a lie. But unclear.
As unclear as my philosophy essay was today according to Loser Langton.
Harrumphing at the stray thought, I squint at the hoodie and sigh with relief—no blood.
Phew.
I toss it in the washing machine just as Zach throws the popcorn into a bowl and douses it with salt and sugar.
My favorite.
God, he’s being too perfect.
I’m not used to this.
It’s weird.
And I like it too much.
Which is dangerous.
Once I’ve washed my hands, he drags me into the living room.
I blush when he tugs me into his side, not stopping until his arm’s curved around my shoulders.
“You’re on edge.”
“The Stars are playing the Sting Rays. Of course, I’m on edge.”
He hums but seems content to let me get away with that bullshit answer. Bullshit because I already know who won and this is a replay.
In fact, the rest of the day, he’s perfect.
