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I don’t speak for a few seconds, shock plastered on my face.
“Fine. Gee, no need to freak out. I was just trying to be a good friend.”
As soon as I pronounce the last word, his face darkens and he lets out a bitter laugh.
“Then, as a friend, I’m asking you to respect that I don’t want to talk about it.”
I know I shouldn’t have said it, but my irritation with his infuriating habit of doing everything he possibly can not to open up to anyone got the best of me. I couldn’t help it. I had to use the forbidden word to try and get a reaction out of him. It’s like the dude would rather die than be vulnerable for five seconds.
“I’m tired. Can you help me upstairs?” I ask after a few minutes of heavy silence.
“Sure.” He nods, his voice softer than before.
When we get onto the second floor, Haze leads the way to his room. I use my crutches to head for the closest guest room instead, and he stops me.
“What are you doing?” His eyes bore into mine. “That’s one of the coldest rooms in the house. You might catch a cold.”
“I think I’ll take my chances.” I pick up my luggage—that we left in the middle of the hall when we came up in a rush earlier—get inside the guest room, and shut the door behind me. Seconds pass. I hear him sigh. Then, his door closes, too. I fall backward and collapse onto the freezing queen-size bed.
He’s never going to let me in.
No doubt about it…
These are going to be the most frustrating weeks of my life.
There are many reasons why Haze Adams and I can’t be friends. The main one is that, as a friend, I don’t think I’m supposed to drool when I see him in nothing but a towel in the morning.
I’ve been trying not to make eye contact with him too much since I ran into him walking out of the bathroom half-naked. All I can see when I look at him are the drops of water slowly rolling down his abs, and I might need a bit more than fifteen minutes to get that image out of my head.
We’re sitting in the car and heading for the breakfast restaurant Haze talked about yesterday. The atmosphere feels heavy. Mostly because of the mini fight we had last night. He’s been acting like nothing is wrong, but I can tell we both have a lot on our minds.
I hold back a small cough and see him frown from the corner of my eye. That’s the third time I’ve coughed today, and he’s had the exact same reaction each time.
He was right: I froze my butt off last night. But I was trying to prove a point: that we can’t get closer physically unless he lets me get close to him on a deeper, more meaningful level. I hope I’m not getting sick for nothing.
“We’re here,” he says and points to a restaurant on our left. Beck’s, the sign reads.
Haze quickly finds a parking spot and helps me out of the car.
We walk into the crowded although very simple restaurant, and I think this may be one of the only places I’ve seen driving around Colton Gate that doesn’t scream “exorbitant.” It’s welcoming, warm.
As soon as we step foot inside, a gorgeous waitress greets us. She immediately raises her eyebrows at the sight of Haze.
I know, girl, I know.
“Welcome to Beck’s. Table for two?” She smiles, shamelessly devouring Haze with her eyes. She could at least try to be subtle. We only nod as a response. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you a couple? We currently have a promotion for—”
He cuts her off. “We’re just friends.”
Ouch.
“Oh. All righty, then. Follow me.” She poorly tries to contain her joy and leads the way.
I do my best not to display any reaction, but I’m boiling on the inside. This is getting ridiculous.
It didn’t sound like we were just friends when you started undressing me in that motel room, Haze. Or when you told me you loved me right before I passed out.
We both sit down at a table next to the bay window and exchange looks that are packed with insinuation.
