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Or if I could make her moan the way she did after practically shot-gunning her imitation iced tea.
Or what it would be like to have my fingers in her hair for something other than picking out globs of drying dough… Maybe we should try to make the scratch pretzels again.
Shit.
Okay, so that’s three times and it’s only Wednesday, but whatever. I’m getting a handle on it, and things with Lara have never been better.
I didn’t think we’d ever get back to where we were in high school, clicking so hard half the time we know what the other person is thinking before they even say it, but somehow, even with all the years apart, we already are.
We talk. We text. We send silly memes and talk trash and— damn, I haven’t felt like someone got me this way in forever. Not since the last time I felt it with her.
It’s fucking amazing. And those stray thoughts? They’ll be gone in no time.
* * *
Ben
“Yikes, Ben,” my sister drawls, running her finger along the entertainment center a week later. “You might need to have a word with Sylvia about her dusting.”
I set my bowl of guac on the coffee table in front of the couch with enough force a chunky green glop splatters over the side. Great. More for Sylvia.
“Ehh, cut her some slack, sweetheart.” Bowie steps up behind Piper, wrapping his arms around her in a possessive hold that, based on that slick smirk he shoots my way, is at least seventy-five percent for my benefit. “She’s trying. And yeah, she’s not the best.”
“Not even close,” Piper agrees like our shared blood means nothing.
“Probably somewhere in the bottom fifth percentile.”
Bottom fifth? “The fuck?—?”
Bowie winks. “Give it a few years. Eventually she’ll master the basics.”
My molars grind together, and I’m about to say something I’m sure I’ll regret when Lara breezes in carrying a pitcher of margaritas in one hand and a bag of limes in the other. “I think she’s doing a pretty good job. But if you don’t like her work, is there a reason you can’t hire someone else?”
The question hangs in the air for a beat and then Piper coughs out a cackling laugh.
Bowie rubs a hand over her back. “Our man Boomer here has some issues hanging on to cleaning services.”
Dick.
“Issues?” She drops onto the couch beside me with a curious look.
“I was messy.”
Piper snorts. “Messy like he can’t keep his dick in his pants and his crap off the floor. Although it looks like he’s gotten better about that second part. But the first has something to do with why certain services won’t take our calls.”
“Reeally,” Lara drawls out, clearly loving this shit.
“Exaggeration,” I growl as Bowie grunts something that sounds a lot like “Understatement.”
Her answering laugh is something else. A warm, contagious thing that pulls me along for the ride.
Grinning, I nod toward the cutting board and paring knife. “Grab those for me?”
She reaches for them and our knees brush, just long enough for me to notice how not terrible it feels and then mentally slap myself.
We’ve talked about this. “We” being me and me.
Friends don’t notice shit like that.
