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I don’t mind taking care of him. Actually, I kind of like it. But I’ve never minded doing anything when it comes to Maddox. Any time together is worth taking.
A slow, pained groan comes from beneath the blanket as I set the steaming mug on his bedside table and ease onto the bed beside him. I pinch the edge of the blanket and start to slowly peel it back, exposing a very, very shirtless and muscled Dox with his eyes shut and his lips parted on a breath.
He groans again, this time sounding more uncomfortable than in pain. The sudden exposure to the cool air is probably responsible for that.
“I brought you tea,” I murmur.
One tired green eye peeks open. “What kind?” he rumbles.
“Lemon with honey.”
“Thank you, Curly Fry.” He slips an arm out from beneath the blanket and pulls on one of my tight curls for good measure. The other eye opens as he grins, flashing me two rows of gleaming white teeth.
I swat at his hand. “Enough of that name.”
“I like it.”
“You like referring to me as a kind of deep-fried potato?”
He rolls his eyes before circling my wrist with his long fingers and pulling on me until I move closer. A flash of self-consciousness has me adjusting my loose T-shirt back over my stomach when I feel it start to ride up. My leggings are a size too small, and the band keeps rolling down when I sit, leaving me feeling too exposed. I meant to throw these away the last time I did laundry, but I was in such a rush to get here that I must not have noticed the pinching of the material in my hips or the lack of stretch across my butt.
Maddox has seen my body change more than a handful of times over the course of our friendship. I’ve gone from skinny to overweight and then back again more times than I can count, but this time, I seem to be stuck on the heavier side. It’s just how I am—how my body is. I’ve always gained weight easily and had to work my ass off—literally—to get back to where I was.
I eat when I’m stressed, and when I eat, I gain weight that brings feelings of resentment toward myself, which in turn makes me eat more. It’s an evil cycle of mental torture that I can’t seem to put an end to.
Fingers intertwine with mine. “Hey, what’s wrong? What happened?”
My cheeks thump with embarrassment. “Nothing, sorry. I must have spaced out for a second.”
“Is that what we’re going with?”
I stare at our joined hands, and my heart flutters. Just like it always does. But I also ignore it—like always. “Do you think I’m pretty? Like, in a woman way, not a best friend type of way.”
His brows tug in, creating a crease between them that I want to smooth out. There’s almost an angry glow in his eyes, but that can’t be right. Why would he be angry with me?
“No. I don’t think you’re pretty,” he replies tightly.
My face burns with rejection. A bucket of ice water crashes over me, and I bite my tongue hard in an attempt to distract myself from the burning behind my eyes.
“Thank you for being honest,” I whisper while trying to pull my hand free.
He squeezes my fingers, refusing to let go. “You’re not simply pretty, Braxton. That would be a goddamn insult. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Cut that shit out right now,” he growls.
Before I have a chance to let his words fully sink in, he’s reaching behind him and grabbing something from the other side table. When he finds what he’s looking for, he drops it in my lap.
“Who’s in that picture frame?” he asks.
I slide my finger along the edge of the black frame and stare down at the photo inside. Tears blur my vision. How have I never noticed this there before?
“Me,” I answer.
“Yeah. You.”
“Why do you have this?”
He rakes his eyes over me, huffing a breath. “Why do I have a photo of you riding a horse, wearing a pair of boots that were probably covered in shit and a hideous helmet hiding your curls on my nightstand?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
