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“You slammed the door in my face the first time I came over without it.”
“You make me sound like a brat,” I say with a pout. Am I really that bad?
He’s never minded before. Right?
“Truce.” He holds up his hands, his abs flexing and shifting with the movement.
Not that I notice. Much.
“Truce,” I agree. “In the name of truce, could you put a shirt on or something?”
The smirk that quirks his mouth is sexy as sin—wait, what am I thinking?
This. Is. Garrett.
And Garrett looks like a fun ride to take for a spin.
Shut up, shut up, shut up!
“Can’t control yourself around me?” His voice is laced with humor.
“Please,” I deny. “I am curious though. What brought on your love affair with the gym?”
He brings his hand up to rub along his abs, stirring the light dusting of hair that disappears into his boxers. “I was tired of being scrawny.”
“You weren’t! Don’t talk about my friend that way.”
“Ames, I was six three and barely weighed a hundred and fifty pounds. Add in the Coke bottle glasses, and I was begging to get my ass kicked.”
“That was high school though.”
“When do you think I started going to the gym?”
“What?” Shock fills me. How did I not notice this—him—and when he started to change?
He shrugs. “What else was I going to do when you landed that sitcom role?”
At sixteen, Roni had caught me on stage, and within months I was given a small, recurring role as the ditzy cheerleader friend to the main character. She had convinced my parents to have me work with tutors, and my high school days were done. Senior prom was as Garrett’s “date.”
“Garrett—”
“Forget about it. That was a long time ago, and we have more pressing problems to figure out.”
“Don’t remind me.” I groan.
“We’re not the first couple to have a drunken wedding in Vegas.”
What cologne does he use? The movement as he sits next to me on the bed has it reaching toward me in temptation.
“We’re not a couple,” I say, trying to fight the way my body wants to melt into him.
“Not what I meant,” he grinds out.
I’ve struck a nerve. Reaching out, I wince when he flinches away before my hand can connect to his shoulder. He’s never done that before, and while I understand he’s hurt, the rejection still stings.
“We’ll get divorced.” His voice is flat, and he doesn’t look at me. “People do it all the time.”
“We can’t,” I say, thinking back to what we were wearing when we woke up this morning—or lack thereof.
