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She didn’t. Because she had a boyfriend.
“Oh,” she said, and she looked slightly taken aback. “That’s great then.” The way she said it made it sound like she thought it was anything but great.
Had he said something wrong? He was about to ask when she reached for her purse.
“I should go. I have to catch up on some work tomorrow even though it’s Saturday.” She opened her purse and pulled out her wallet. “Torin, can I get my bill?”
“No,” Sullivan said, waving his cousin off. “It’s on the house. You’re letting me crash with you, after all.”
“That’s true. Great, thanks.” She stood up. “I’ll see you later then. At home. Though I’ll probably be asleep when you come in.”
“I’ll try to be quiet.”
“I’m a hard sleeper.”
He stood up as well. “Thanks for talking to me tonight.” He pulled her into his arms for a hug. “It’s good to have you back home, Eddie.”
He meant it as friends.
A gesture of appreciation and a welcome back.Haven’t seen you in forever. That kind of hug.
Yet it didn’t feel that way to him. The second his arms wrapped around her and he pulled her body in closer to his, it felt like the floor shifted beneath his feet. Like an actual fucking earthquake. In Minnesota.
Because she was all sweet lotion scent and thick hair and warm flesh brushing against his.
And she had listened to him and they were friends and holy shit, he needed to get away from her. Immediately.
He stepped back.
So did Eddie. So quickly she knocked over the stool she’d been sitting on.
“Oh!” She bent down to pick it up and her hip collided with his thigh.
He froze, his mouth going dry.
“Oh!” she repeated.
“Let me help you.” He forced himself to move, bending down to grab the stool.
They were both squatting, a hand on the stool, staring into each other's eyes. Sullivan prayed the wood stool was camouflaginghiswood. He had a hard on, which was just so fucking typical. His dick had notoriously bad timing.
Eddie let go of the stool and rose to her feet, narrowly missing clipping her head on the bartop. “Bye, see you later,” she said, flinging her purse strap over her shoulder and bolting across the bar.
He stayed squatting, swallowing hard, and rotating through a series of mental images that would defuse his erection.
Maggots. Roadkill. His great aunt Maeve’s callused feet with ingrown toenails.
Those were his go-tos.
It mostly worked. Enough that he could finally stand up without knocking the stool back over with the baseball bat he was swinging in his pants.
When he rose to his feet, he came face to face with his cousin, who was eyeing him with pity.
“She has a boyfriend,” Torin said, throwing his own damn words back in his face. Again.
“Yep. The sexy former model who owns a lingerie company has a rich British boyfriend. Go figure.”
Torin’s eyebrows rose. “Dude. You’re a mess.”
