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"Hey." I keep my voice even. Casual. Like I didn't ask him to kiss me. Like he didn't offer to spank me. Like I get that he was teasing, that it didn't mean anything, and not like I spent the entire night imagining him pulling me onto his lap.
"You look fucking awful, Kay."
"Hey." I brush my hair onto my right shoulder. "It's not my fault Emma threw away her blow dryer so she wouldn't fry her hair further."
His lips spread into a smile that lights up his dark eyes.
My knees knock together.
That's all it takes for me to crumble—his smile.
But, God, it's a gorgeous smile.
Has it always been this hard to breathe around Brendon? I'm not ashamed to say I've had a crush on him since the first day I saw him on that couch all tall, handsome, and brooding.
But it's been the better part of a decade.
There have been other guys. Dates. Boyfriends. Sloppy make out sessions at parties.
And that big chunk of time last year where I didn't want anyone or anything.
"You always look good." He motions to the table sit. "It's your expression."
"Yeah?" I don't want to take orders from him—well, not while we're both dressed—but with the hangover and the lust mixing together sitting is all I can manage.
I take a seat, cross my legs, smooth my button up shirt. The restaurant switched to black shirts six months ago. They hide stains better, but they also suck up all the energy in the room.
"You want tea?" he asks.
"I can make it."
"I know."
"I want to make it."
He shoots me that same stern look. "Which one?"
I press my lips together. I keep a dozen boxes of different teas here. "Iron Goddess of Mercy."
He chuckles. "Suits you."
"You've used that one before."
"It still suits you."
My laugh breaks up the tension in my chest. I'm nowhere near close to badass enough for a label like that, but there are ways that it fits.
Brendon turns on the kettle. Grabs a mug and a tin of tea from the top cabinet.
I try not to obsess over the way his t-shirt hugs his broad shoulders. "You're up early."
"You too."
"I couldn't sleep."
"Hmm."
"What's hmm?"
