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He flips his drying hair. "You prefer blonds?"
Actually, yes. Light hair and light eyes any day of the week.
"Fuck. You do. You're easy to read."
"I am not."
"Yeah. You are. When you aren't pissed, you smile a lot."
"I do not."
"Maybe with other people you don't. But when you're with me—"
"I do not."
"I can start recording it."
I take another bite. Still tomato and cheese perfection. Still warm and rich. "That's creepy."
"You really don't notice it?"
No. But now that I think about it, he's right. I've smiled more today than I have any day the last month. I've smiled more this week than I have in the last year.
Yes, I've frowned and ughed and wanted to slap the stupid out of Dean a lot too.
But, overall, I feel good. Like I'm finally where I belong.
Like I'm with someone—
No. I'm not with Dean. We're hanging out. As friends or coworkers or mentor/student. I'm not sure, but I'm sure it's not sexual. Even if he keeps looking at me like he's thinking about me naked.
I don't blame him.
I'm doing the same.
God, the way that white t-shirt stretches over his shoulders. The cotton is damp. See-through. I can make out the ink over his right pec. Words, but what are they? And, God, the outlines of his muscles. He's just so…
Hot.
There's no other way to express it.
Dean Maddox is sex on a stick.
I look around the room. Find another hottie—a guy on a date with a short blond woman. He's tall, fit, with pretty blue eyes and dark hair.
Hot, even if he isn't my type.
But my body isn't responding.
Then I look to Dean. To his bright eyes and his wicked smile and his perfect pecs.
My heartbeat picks up.
My stomach flutters.
My sex clenches.
And my head… fuck, it fills with so many ideas.
