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“What? Talking to my best friend?”
His hair falls in front of his eyes as he shakes his head.
“Ryan…” My fingers curl around his wrist. I’m not sure what I’m asking for, only that I want it.
His voice is soft. “You look miserable, Leigh.”
“But hot?”
“You’re wrapped in a blanket.”
I unpeel the layers of cotton and polyester. Let the comforter fall at my sides.
His eyes glide over my body. Slowly. Like he’s savoring every inch. He takes in my breasts, my stomach, my hips, my thighs, my calves, my painted red toenails.
Then he works his way back to my eyes. “I lost one relationship because I didn’t understand what a woman wanted.”
“Oh?”
“What do you want me to say to that?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
“You know you look good.”
“But I don’t know what you think.”
“You’re my best friend.”
The four words are an explanation. You’re my best friend. It wouldn’t matter if you were the hottest woman in the world. I can’t look at you that way.
I press on anyway. “But you want to fuck me?”
“You’re drunk, Leigh.”
“No. I’m not.”
“Yeah. You are. And you’re pissed at me and I don’t have a fucking clue why.”
I shake my head.
His eyes bore into mine. “She said I didn’t talk to her.”
“Did you?”
“I thought so…” His gaze goes to the string lights. “But maybe I didn’t.”
“Oh.”
“You think I talk to you?”
“A little. But not really.”
Understanding fills his eyes. “I listen?”
“Yeah. But I don’t talk.”
“You trust me?”
