What crossed his mind in that moment? The hurt-her-and-die speech? The she’s-mine-leave-her-alone speech? I almost snort. I’d like to see him try it.
I’m being a dick, I know. But I can’t help myself. There’s this... possessive force rattling inside my ribcage, and even the thought of him being closer to her than I am makes me grind my fucking teeth.
I should be taken aback. Should feel confused, uncertain, hesitant, nervous... but I’ve never seen so clearly in my entire life. There isn’t a trace of indecision in my body, only resolve.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket, making me jump. It’s going to be Papá, and I don’t want to talk to him right now.
He sent me some paperwork for a deal he wants me to close next week and is probably calling to talk it through even though I should be in Europe playing hockey.
The weight of his expectations threatens to ruin my buzz. If only I could find my balls and tell him outright that I don’t want to inherit the family business. What I want is to play hockey. He’d laugh in my fucking face if I even suggested I hang up my suits and my successorship instead of my skates.
Edith’s date has had enough time to get the hell out of our building. Squaring my shoulders, I nod to myself as I open the door, those damn butterflies flapping in my stomach as I cross the hallway and let myself into her apartment just in time for her to toss a pillow across the room.
¡Ay!There go the flowers.¡Dios mío!So fucking dramatic.
Okay, while she can be dramatic, that’s probably not fair at this particular point in time. Shit’s hard for her, and her tear-stained, flushed face turns to me with distress carved into those delicate features.
Hurrying over to her, I crouch at her feet. “It’ll be okay,princesa. One day, one hour, one minute at a time, okay? I swear, you’re going to get better and we’re going to do everything we can.”
She shakes her head, tears flowing faster now. Rolling her eyes like I’m the world’s biggest idiot and have no idea what I’m talking about, she sighs. It’s all I can do not to kiss her again.Coño. My fingers tingle with the urge to reach out and sweep her beautiful golden hair out of her face.
Her brows dip, her forehead wrinkles, and I know I’m about to get my ass handed to me a split second before she opens her mouth. “What the fuck did you do that for, Apollo?”
Huh. I guess she’s not down for the kissing thing.
CHAPTER7
Edith
Dude’s giving me golden retriever energy right now, and I have no idea why. Doesn’t he know what he’s done to me? To us?
Why is it that when men think they’ve got a great idea, their dicks just run with it?
Like, on what planet did he believe kissing me was a good plan? I... Ugh. And he’s still looking at my lips like he’s going to take another bite out of them.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want him to. But I can’t. We can’t. Even if every friends to lovers couple I’ve ever known of hadn’t turned to shit, his timing couldn’t be worse.
He thinks that right now, after an almost life-ending and potentially career-ending car accident, when my life got literally flipped upside down, is the perfect time to declare his undying love for me? He thinks this hot garbage on a summer’s day that is my life is the right moment for me to embark on a new romantic relationship?
Okay, fine. He hasn’t said either of those things, and I’m ignoring the little flutter in my chest at the idea that he might want to declare his undying love for me because now isn’t the time.
It’s not.
Is post-accident love-struck-ness a thing? Like PTSD but without the trauma and with a boner instead? That’s what this is. A post-traumatic stress boner. He saw the light at the end of the tunnel, that end-of-life montage you get with scenes from your existence set to a badass eighties backing track, and now he thinks he needs to act on it.
Idiot.
I have no idea how men run the world when their dicks are almost entirely responsible for their thought processes.
Maybe he’s scared of dying alone. Or it could be a guilt thing? He blames himself for our accident and throwing himself at me is his method of penance?
He’s just staring at me, head tipped to the side like an honest to god excitable dog waiting for a scratch behind the ears. His beard has been trimmed, his dark locks are slicked back, and I can’t tell if it’s with hair product or because he’s run his hands through it enough times that it’s stuck.
“I love you, Edie.”
And there it is.
I should be flattered, right? Or at least not blood-boiling level mad when my best friend, my neighbor, and the boy who taught me Spanish and pushes me to be the best version of myself confesses his love to me. But all I feel right now is rage, and I’m doing my best not to smack that love-sick look off his beautiful fucking face.
