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“Aww…Hulk. Don’t be,” I tease, using the nickname Maddie sometimes calls him, which I know he secretly likes.
“Don’t call me that. And I’m not embarrassed, but I don’t need to hear your judgments.” He keeps his focus on his food and the TV. He tenses anytime Maddie is around, but who knew calling him that would have the same affect? This is good to know.
“I think it’s a cute nickname,” I say, setting my bowl down on the coffee table, then moving closer to him so I can wrap my arm around his shoulders. “C’mon, tell me!” I beg, sticking out my lower lip and giving him my best puppy dog face. “I swear I won’t tease you. Maybe it’ll be one I want to watch with you?”
Liam groans, making a point not to look at me. “Fine. But you can’t give me any shit. Got it?”
I smile, giddy. “I’d never.”
“Hart of Dixie,” he murmurs, lowering his face to shove another large bite into his mouth as if that’ll cover up what he just said.
“Oh my God! I love that show!” I squeeze his arm and give him a side hug. “Now we can watch it together!”
Mason’s laughter tears my gaze toward him as he shakes his head with a goofy grin on his face.
“Shut up, fucker,” Liam fires.
“Time to turn in your man card, dude.”
I shuffle back to my spot on the couch, then grab my bowl of food. “Don’t be so mean!” I playfully smack his arm. “It is a good show.”
Liam extends his arm toward Mason and flips him the bird. “I swear, you two are toddlers.”
“But I’m your favorite, right, Sophie?” Liam goads with a smug smirk.
“Of course. My favorite shit-stirrer,” I tease.
Chapter Twenty
Mason
I know Liam and Sophie are just friends, and their friendship has been solid since they met. They formed a bond that has only grown, and I’m jealous as hell of it. I pushed her away all that time, pretending our bathroom quickie never happened, and have been kicking my own ass for it. Seeing them hang out and grow closer makes me wonder if that’s where our friendship is leading too. Though I’m the reason it never turned into anything more, I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t tired of fighting my feelings for her, especially after everything we’ve been through.
After we finish our food and an episode of Lucifer, Sophie steals the remote and turns on Liam’s chick show. I pretend to be annoyed with it, but after the first episode, I’m actually interested. But I’m not admitting that to either of them.
Hell, Rachel Bilson rocks a pair of short shorts and high heels like it’s nobody’s business.
Yep, that’s what I’m going with. Just in case either of them asks or makes a comment about why I watched it with them all damn night long.
Sophie is up early the next morning for her first day back to work, and when I see her zombie-walk into the kitchen toward the coffeemaker, I smile at how cute she looks after rolling out of bed.
“Morning,” I say, leaning against the counter with my own cup. I’m so used to being up early for work, and since I plan to go back as soon as fucking possible, I’m not about to eff up that schedule by sleeping all day. Whenever my dad decides to lift my ridiculous “leave” and says I’m in the clear.
“Hey.” Her voice is gruff.
“You okay?” I arch a brow.
She blinks at me and nods before pouring a large cup of coffee. I shuffle around her and grab her creamer from the fridge.
“Thanks. And yeah, I’m just tired.”
“Stayed up too late? Reading?” I probe, wondering what kept her up. We all stopped watching TV around eleven then crashed.
“No, Caleb texted me shortly after I went to my room, and we ended up talking for two hours. Then I couldn’t fall asleep right away.”
I don’t hide my disapproval as my brows shoot up. “Caleb? Who’s that?”
“Oh, he’s one of the people I met at the grieving circle I told you about. We went to the cafe afterward.”
I rack my brain, scratching the back of my head as I try to recall her mentioning one of those people was a guy. “Oh. Didn’t realize you were on texting terms already.”
Sophie tilts her head at me as if she’s trying to read my thoughts. Shit. I straighten my spine and give her a look of indifference. “I mean…well, you just met. Seems quick, that’s all.”
She shrugs as she takes her first sip. “Yeah, I guess. He lost his wife a few months ago, and I think he just needs an ear to listen. It was his first meeting, too.”
Well, now I feel like a piece of shit for making assumptions.
“Oh. That’s sad. How old is he?” I ask, shuffling around the kitchen so she can’t see my face. Maybe he’s eighty, and I’m worrying for nothing.
