My stomach swooped.
No.
Absolutely not.
Feeding me should not sound like foreplay.
But somehow, from Drew Travers’ mouth, it did.
“Stop saying things like that,” I muttered.
“Like what?”
“Like you enjoy being useful.”
“I do enjoy being useful.”
“That is suspicious.”
“That’s because you think all men are ornaments or weapons.”
I blinked.
He brought the plates over before I could decide whether to be offended.
Then I realized I wasn’t.
Not fully.
He handed me a plate piled with noodles and dumplings, then sat beside me with his own mountain of food. Too close.The couch was huge, but Drew sat close enough that his thigh pressed lightly against mine.
“For the record,” I said, stabbing noodles with my fork, “you do not need to feed me like I’m a wounded baby bird.”
“For the record,” he said, picking up his own fork, “you threatened a volleyball queen, yelled at two star athletes, made out with me in front of a bonfire, and then limped to my car like you were fine. You’re not a wounded baby bird. You’re a menace with soft tissue damage.”
I pointed my fork at him. “That was almost sweet until the end and I did not threaten her….”
“It was sweet the whole time.”
“You need classes.”
“On what?”
“Tone.”
“I have excellent tone.”
“You told me I had soft tissue damage.”
“Accurate and sexy.”
I snorted.
Drew grinned and reached over, twirling a little nest of noodles around his fork from my plate.
I slapped his wrist. “Those are mine.”
“I gave them to you.”
