“You’re wearing a shirt.”
I glance down at my chest. “Oh yeah, well, the fabric must be thin. Brrr, maybe go warm up those frigid paws of yours, don’t want to catch a cold.”
“It’s the middle of summer.” She takes a step back. “If you don’t want me to stay over because you have something else going on, then just tell me, Breaker.”
“No, I have nothing else going on.”
What are you doing, you moron? That was your out!
“Okay, well, then I’ll just let you get ready for bed.”
She moves back toward the bedroom, and I shut the bathroom door behind her.
Jesus Christ.
Get it together, man. You’re better than this. You’re smoother than this. You’re Breaker fucking Cane. Stop acting like a total nitwit, strap on a goddamn pair, and be the best friend this woman needs.
And for fuck’s sake, stop embarrassing yourself.
I take the next few minutes to go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and create a mental wall that is completely impenetrable. Mark my words, when I slip into that bed, there will be no—and I mean NO—romantic thoughts of my best friend. Platonic. That’s what we’re going for. All the platonic-ness one can muster.
Is that even a word?
Doesn’t matter. That’s what’s happening.
Because if anything, I’m a Cane, and Canes are born with the crafty ability to hold strong, to not buckle, and to rely on their mental fortitude to get them through any situation.
There. Pep talk complete.
I exit the bathroom, turn off the light, and head over to the bed where Lia is already resting under the covers, her beautiful, silky hair fanned out against the dark of my pillowcase like a fucking . . . NO!
No thoughts of any fanning hair and how it’s a beautiful contrast against the navy pillowcase.
No goddamn poetic sonnets based around how the moonlight looks on her Irish alabaster skin.
Nothing.
Focus, Cane.
I move toward my side of the bed and ask, “Uh, you comfortable?”
“Always. I love your bed,” she says as she snuggles in even closer.
“Good,” I answer as I slip under the covers and turn off the light, letting the moon illuminate the space through the sheer gray curtains hanging over the window.
I turn toward her in bed, where she scoots closer, her knee knocking with mine.
Watch it, lady. Distance, maintain distance.
“You’re really jittery tonight,” she says. “Is it something I said or did?”
Yes, you just exist. That’s the problem.
“No,” I answer as I stare into her beautiful eyes. “Maybe I’m just restless, you know, with not having a job at the moment.”
“Are you sure? Because you’ve been weird ever since we left the dress shop.”
Because I couldn’t stop thinking how goddamn beautiful you are.
Wait, is that putting up a wall? No, it’s not. Then again, when she stares at me with those large, mossy eyes, I can’t seem to switch my brain back to protective mode.
“Stubbed my toe in there,” I say out of the blue.
“What?” she asks.
“Uh, yeah. Stubbed my toe and haven’t felt right ever since.”
“You’re being stupid,” she says while playfully pushing at my chest. “Is this your way of trying to make me feel better?”
“Yes,” I say, almost out of desperation. “Yup, you know me, always joking around.”
“Well, I appreciate the attempt, but I think I just need to get some sleep and rest my mind.”
“Yeah, might be best.” I smile. “Well, good night.”
“Night, Breaker.”
She turns away from me, and I mentally let out a large sigh. Well, thank God for that. Not sure what I would have done if she wanted to continue to talk. Now, I can just rest here in peace and not worry about staring into her eyes, getting lost in her late-night voice, or even thinking about— She scoots backward.
Uh, what is she doing?
Then some more.
Excuse me, you’re getting kind of close.
Her ass bumps into my leg.
Warning! Warning! She’s way too close.
“Whatcha got going on there?” I ask her, my body stiff as a board.
“Can you hold me, Breaker?”
Absolutely. Not.
Has she lost her goddamn mind?
Hold her?
In the same bed?
Like . . . she wants us to gulp spoon or something. What the hell has gotten into her, and why now? Why, on the day that I realize I love this girl? Is this some sick joke that I’m unaware of? Some prank that I’m caught up in? If so, it’s not fucking funny.
No way on God’s green earth am I about to spoon Lia.
“Please, Breaker. I could really use the comfort.”
Well . . . fuck . . . me.
“Um, do you think Brian would like to know that I held you at night?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” I say. “He would hate it.”
“It’s not like it matters. I’m not cheating on him. You’re my best friend, my family, the only person who can truly make me feel at peace. If you were a girl, I’d ask you to do the same.”
“You would?” I ask.
“Of course. I used to spoon with my mom all the time.”
Ah, so she sees me as a motherly figure. I can’t hear that enough.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” she says in such a defeated tone that I can actually feel my heart twist in my chest.
“No, I can,” I reply quickly. “Just, you know, checking all of my bases is all.” I lift my arm and hover it over her for a few seconds. Do I just . . . cuddle her? Or should I just lightly drape my burly man arm over the curve of her waist to make it seem like we’re spooning, but in reality, I’m just using her as a human armrest?
The human armrest thing feels very rewarding, so I gently place my forearm on her waist, my hand extended straight out and lifting the blankets.
Eh, that doesn’t work, so I lift my arm again and hover. I adjust, touch down on her waist, and notice the same thing.
Nope, back to hover.
I don’t know where to drape. Not over her boobs, those as we found out from her hanging bra are loose and wild at the moment.
There’s her stomach, but is that too intimate?
Which leaves her pelvic area, and well, not so sure that’s a great idea either. Hand to pelvis doesn’t scream platonic, more like one stroke away from legs spread and loud moans.
Luckily, I don’t have to debate it too long because she lowers my arm around her stomach and scoots in closer so her body is plastered against mine.
Right up against me.
Back to chest.
Butt to . . . gulp crotch.
Sweet Jesus, man . . . do not get a goddamn boner.
Penis, do you hear me? This is not a moment to defy me. Be a good fucking listener.
Think of flaccid things. FLACCID. Flaccid, floppy, dangly, pendulous . . . limp. There you go.
OH, I could think of things that are so repulsive that I’d rather hurl my head into my trash can than think about.
Ahhh, I know.
I squeeze my eyes shut and conjure up images of JP and his dirty pigeon friend. What’s its name?
Cocoon?
Carl?
“Clementine?” I accidentally say out loud.
“What?” Lia whispers.
“Uh, Clementine,” I repeat, for God knows what reason.
“Like the fruit?”
“Sure,” I answer.
“Why are you saying that?”
“Can’t think of JP’s pigeon friend.”