Her eyes trail down my neck and land on my chest, nostrils flaring. “Would you go put a freaking shirt on?”
I smirk. “Why? Is it distracting you?”
“No,” she sayswaytoo quickly. “It’s disrespectful to air out your nipples during a housing crisis.”
I glance down. “My nipples are literally minding their own business—they’re not even hard.”
“Well, they’re makingmeuncomfortable.”
I laugh again, heading toward the bedroom to find a T-shirt, hobbling most of the way there ’cause my leg has begun to throb.
Behind me, Annabelle mutters, “Oh fantastic. He’s limping. His pain and suffering keeps getting better.”
“Speak for yourself,” I grunt, grabbing a soft tee from my bag and yanking it over my head with a wince. The knee flares again, hot and sharp, and for a brief second, I have to pause to catch my breath, gripping the bedpost.
God, I hate this part. The postsurgery throbbing. The slowed-down version of myself I barely recognize. The way my body feels like it’s constantly two steps behind my pride.
But I shake it off and walk back out like nothing happened. Can’t lethersee that.
Annabelle’s curled up on the couch now, blanket wrapped around her, like a burrito of indignation, scrolling something on her phone with exaggerated aggression.
“You look cozy,” I say, settling into the armchair nearby. “Don’t get too relaxed. You could be out on your ass at a moment’s notice.”
She narrows her eyes. “Ha ha.”
I grin. “Just saying. You should probably sleep with one shoe on. Makes it easier to run when the rental company inevitably realizesyou’rethe clerical error.”
“Oh my God.” She shudders. “Why did Lucy never warn me that Harris’s teammates were—”
“Hot?” I offer helpfully.
“I was going to say ‘unbearably full of themselves,’ but sure, let’s go with ‘hot.’”
“Hey,” I say, quieter now. “I wasn’t totally kidding. If they don’t call back by tomorrow, I’ll help you sort it out. Worst case, I contact theresort and borrow a cot for you to sleep on. I’m sure they have the nice kind the size of a twin bed.”
She folds her arms, lips twitching. “Wow.I’m too stunned at your horrible offer to be offended you’re offering me a bed with wheels. What’s next? You gonna warm up some tea and ask me about my feelings?”
“Absolutely not.” Gross.
“Would you offer me the bed if I sprained my ankle?”
“No,” I deadpan. “Because I have a busted knee. I’d put aBand-Aidaround yours and tell you to walk it off.”
If I were romantically interested in her, I might even kiss it ...
She laughs, soft and surprised, and I hate how much I like the sound of it.
“Hmm,” she hums, shifting to tuck the blanket tighter around her legs. “I guess I could do worse than a smart-ass with a bum knee and a healthy protein addiction.”
Aww.“That’s literally the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Not.
She smirks, eyes drifting toward the window, where light spills onto the rug. “I still hate you a little.”
“Good. Wouldn’t want to lose the foundation of our relationship.”
She shifts, adjusting the throw pillow behind her like she’s trying to get comfortable in a nest of spite and throw blankets. “You know what would help this relationship? You offering me the bed.”
