“Perfect fake boyfriend,” he corrected, lifting my injured leg carefully onto the ottoman.
“The most perfect fake boyfriend I’ve ever had.”
“How many have you had?”
“Thousands.”
“Slutty.”
I laughed before I could help it.
His eyes flicked up to mine, and the way he smiled—small, pleased, almost private—made me feel like he’d been trying for that laugh and winning it mattered.
Then he looked back down at my leg. “Brace off?”
“I can do it.”
“I know you can.”
But he waited.
That was the thing.
He offered. He didn’t take.
I hated how much that mattered.
I nodded once.
He loosened the straps with careful fingers, peeling the brace away slowly enough that nothing pulled. His hands were huge, rougher than they looked, callused from lifting and catching and whatever other violent rituals football required. But on my leg, they were gentle.
That contrast should have been illegal.
He set the brace on the floor in a neat line beside the ottoman. Of course he did.
“Heat?” he asked. “Ice? Icy Hot? Compression sleeve? I’ve got everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
“Of course you do.”
He looked mildly offended. “Bodies are expensive. I maintain mine.”
“I’ve noticed.”
The second the words left my mouth, I wanted to stuff them back in.
Drew went very still.
Then his mouth curved.
Slow.
Awful.
“You’ve noticed?”
