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“Poor Chris?” He arches a brow. “PoorChris? If you ask me, I was doing him a favor. He ate an entire month's supply of chocolate bars, the glutton, and you still feel bad for him?”
“Jealous?”
“Hell yeah, I’m jealous. I’d like a little Brynn Nichols’s sympathy thrown my way.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, and I can’t help but notice how adorable he is when he’s playful like this. Or maybe this is just the Taggart charm he uses on all the other girls that make them swoon and I need to be careful.
Either way, I know I’m in trouble because I’m finding it hard to care when the movie starts and he turns his attention to the screen instead of me.
JACE
Brynn lifts the can of soda to her mouth and takes a sip.
I won’t stare at her mouth.
I won’t stare at her mouth.
Shit, I’m staring at her mouth.
I shift on the sofa, training my gaze back to the screen. Ever since the kiss, I think about her mouth pretty much every wakingmoment. I’ve replayed those few minutes on the couch more than I’d like to admit, along with the day in the kitchen when the heat from her skin seared my tongue. It’s like the shape and feel of her lips have been branded in my brain and no amount of wishing them away will make them disappear.
I grab a handful of popcorn and cram it in my mouth, focusing back on the movie. We’ve been watching it for thirty minutes, but all I’ve gotten out of it is that Bridget has a thing for Hugh Grant, but he’s a huge wanker. I don’t even know his character’s name because I can’t focus on a damn thing with Brynn sitting beside me, smelling like fucking tropical paradise in shorts that showcase her long, tan legs, and hair still damp from a shower.
I run a hand over my face, trying to get a grip on my thoughts.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
I’m used to fighting and not getting along. This newfound truce is disconcerting. Mostly because I can’t stop thinking about what she’d look like naked.
Teagan’s my best friend. The Nichols are like family to me. By default, that makes Brynn my responsibility. I need to handle her with care. I can’t honestly say I’ve done that, and I can’t imagine a world in which the way I’m starting to think of her will help.
But hell if I don’t want to spend time with her. With every passing week and each day that goes by, the reasons for why we were ever enemies in the first place start to grow a little fuzzy. In fact, I’m having a hard time remembering when the feuding even started.
I risk a glance at her as she shifts on the couch to set her soda can back on the coffee table. Her shirt rides up her torso as she moves, revealing a sliver of smooth skin, and fuck if I don’t want to reach out and touch it.
I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing my eyes forward.
“What?” she asks, pulling my gaze back to her.
Her cheeks are flushed, and I’d like to think I’m the reason: that my eyes on her are enough to send her blood pumping in her veins.
“Nothing.”
She quirks a brow but returns her attention to the screen, and I exhale. Focusing back on the movie, I try to pay more attention in an effort to redirect the blood rushing south.
Thirty minutes later, I’m watching with rapt attention. Hugh Grant’s character, Daniel Cleaver, I’ve discovered, is a womanizer who can’t or won’t settle down. But he’s fun and charismatic and good-looking. I’m not sure I like the parallels being drawn in my mind between me and him, but they’re there. The only difference between us is I’ve never cheated. Then again, I’ve never gotten serious enough.
Then there’s Marc Darcy, who seems like a giant prick at first, but really, he’s just wounded and misunderstood, but secretly develops feelings for Bridget throughout the course of the movie and several chance encounters. Really, if I’m looking at similarities to my own life, Brynn and I sorta have the hate-to-love thing down.
“So even though they appear to hate each other, they both secretly like each other?” I ask, waving toward the screen.
“Right.”
“Hmmm.”
“What?” I can feel her eyes on me.
“Nothing.” I fall silent for a moment before I add, “It’s just kind of funny, isn’t it?”
