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“Ilove this song.” I turned the radio dial, cranking up the volume on the Goo Goo Dolls’ tune “Slide.”
Barry groaned. “I know you do. I’ve heard it like a million times.”
“Not a million.” My lips twitched. “Six hundred ninety-nine, tops.”
“Once would have been one time too many,” he muttered.
Feeling his gaze on me, I turned my head to look at him. He lounged lazily in the driver’s seat of the Camaro, looking like he owned it. But he just worked in the garage that was repairing it.
His gaze met mine, his eyes heavily hooded.
Had he been staring at my mouth? My lips tingled at the thought. Did he notice the shiny layer of gloss I’d put on them before walking up the drive to see him?
Stop it, Addy Footit. Barry Evans is your best friend. He has his hookup girls. He’s not looking at your lips. He’s not interested in you that way.
But the talking-to I gave myself didn’t work. Not with him looking so sexy with his black work coveralls folded over at his trim waist.
The muscle tee he’d worn beneath clung to his chiseled chest, its bright white a compelling contrast to his lightly bronzed skin. His broad shoulders stretched across the driver’s side of the car and then some, and the leg room specs were pushed to the upper limits by the awe-inspiring length of him.
A year and several months younger than me, my sixteen-year-old best friend used to be a boy. But he wasn’t one anymore, and that was a big problem.
“What color are you going to paint it?” I asked.
His piercing brown eyes focused on my greenish-blue ones with an intensity that made my heart race. “What color would you like?” he asked low.
“Silver would be cool.” I licked my lips. They tasted like strawberry cream because of my gloss.
“Silver like Collin Murphy’s eyes?” One of Barry’s black brows rose to an inquiring height.
“It’s just a nice color.” I stared at my lap, picking at the threads on my faded jeans.
“I don’t know what you see in him.” Barry’s tone turned testy. “He doesn’t give you the time of day, and if he did, why would you be interested? I mean, what does he even know about you? Does he know you like music more than anything in the world? Does he know your eyes sparkle like the surface of Lake Washington during a storm when you tease, or that your voice rises an octave when you’re excited about something?”
“No, he doesn’t.” I shook my head sadly. “Only you know those things.”
“Does he know your favorite color is blue because you used to have a crush on Marcus Anthony from Brutal Strength, or that your favorite band is the Goo Goo Dolls?”
“No, of course not.”
“Does he know you blush when you’re embarrassed?”
The cracked leather beneath Barry protested as he shifted in his seat. He leaned across the center console, wedging his fingertip under my chin to lift my head.
“Addy, answer me,” he demanded, his dark brown eyes active within the thick fringe of his spiky lashes.
“Collin doesn’t even know I exist,” I murmured, my cheeks warming with embarrassment.
“I doubt that very much, Addy.” Barry gave me a head-to-toe sweeping glance as if that explained everything.
Jerking my head back, I huffed out, “I don’t want to talk about this.”
Barry’s handsome face was so close, my frustrated breath lifted a wispy tendril of his medium-length inky-black hair. Several tendrils had escaped the elastic band at his nape since we’d been talking. My fingers itched with the urge to undo the band and release all of his dark silky hair.
“Why not?” he asked. When his gaze dipped again to my mouth, my stomach flipped.
“Because it’s embarrassing.”
And because sometimes I wondered what it would be like to kiss Barry rather than Collin, but I would never cross that line. Barry was my best friend, and I needed him more than anyone or anything.
