His expression changed.
Just barely.
“You don’t have to?—”
“I do,” I cut in. “I’m sorry. I was wrong.”
The house went quiet around us.
Drew looked at me for a long second, and something in his face softened so fast it made my stomach hurt.
Then, because he was Drew and incapable of letting tenderness live too long without poking it, he said, “Damn. Say it again. Slower.”
I rolled my eyes. “There he is.”
“Missed me?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
I shifted my weight and immediately regretted it. Pain tugged through my hamstring, a hot little warning.
Drew saw.
His whole face sharpened.
“Couch,” he said.
“I can walk to the couch.”
“Did I ask?”
“Drew—”
He moved before I finished saying his name. One arm slid behind my back, the other beneath my knees, and then I was off the floor.
Again.
I grabbed his shoulder. “You did not have to carry me across your living room.”
“I know.”
He set me down on the couch like I weighed nothing, which was irritating because I knew I did not weigh nothing. Then he crouched in front of me and started arranging pillows behind my back.
“I wanted to.”
The words were simple.
No wink.
No smirk.
Just there.
My throat went dry.
“You are very bossy for a fake boyfriend.”
