Head Over Feels

“Nothing,” I reply curtly, stalking toward the truck to kick Cade’s ass.

She claps her hands twice. “Then let’s get it done, team. We have lots to do. Hop to it. Cade, I need you upstairs after you load the futon.” Turning to Tealey, she adds, “I have a few questions about the boxes in the corner by the bed.”

I dare to look Tealey’s way again, unsure of what she thinks about Cade spouting shit into the universe like it’s a fact. But her gaze is now trained on the building, and she replies, “On my way.”

They head to the apartment, and I detour to the truck to walk off my aggravation. “You’re an ass, Cade, you know that?”

“It was a joke,” he replies, lifting one side of the futon. “She knows that. You know that. Hell, we all know that. No one thinks you and Tealey would ever hook up.” He laughs. “The odds of that are the same as you letting her drive your car.”

“I …” Wait. What? They all know that Tealey and I would never hook up? Why would they think that? Why is it so outrageous to consider that she and I might be a match?

Something about that rubs me the wrong way and adds to my irritation.

“Guess I must be ignorant when it comes to my own fucking sex life,” I tell Cade.

He quirks a brow. “I didn’t say shit about your sex life. I assume you have that handled.” He groans as he moves the end of the futon around to get a better grip. “I will say that after our little chat the other day and your admission about feelings . . .” He grins. “I’m wondering if you didn’t trip into love. The question is with who?”

“Whom.”

“Whatever,” he replies, setting the futon down.

Jackson carries on by dragging the large piece of furniture to the back of the truck. I don’t think he’s heard a thing Cade and I were talking about, and I’d like to keep it that way. Lowering my voice, I give him my in-court glare, the one that levels my opponents into oblivion. It’s my legal superpower. “I’m not interested in revisiting the conversation from the other day.”

Jackson comes toward me and jumps off the truck. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” I snap.

“Yet you’re defensive about it.” Jackson pats my shoulder when he passes in front of me. “That’s called being grumpy. Come on, grumps. There’s not much to move. I want to get it done in time to watch the game this afternoon.”

We get to work, which gets me off the hook from more awkward, ill-timed conversations and happily distracts me from overthinking it.

After a few trips up and down the stairs, I wipe the beading sweat from my forehead when I walk into the studio apartment again. Cammie instructs me to carry the nightstand. When I pick it up, Tealey is entering the room. She wipes her own brow, then busies herself with a bag.

The piece of furniture is heavier than it looks. Are the drawers lined with stone? When I reach the second floor, my grip slips on one side, so I set the nightstand down to rearrange. I wrestle with it again until I get a hold of it and start forward, my view blocked while going down the stairs. “Am I the love of your life, Rad?”

“Shit.” My grip slips, and the nightstand tilts forward. I grapple to hold it, but the drawer shoots like a rocket, crashing to the floor, and the contents fly everywhere.

Tealey gasps and drops to her knees, scrambling to grab stuff before I have time to set the nightstand down. When I do, I say, “I’m sorry. You startled me.” And then drop to my knees to help.

“Don’t look, Rad.” Her voice pitches as she shoves whatever is buzzing behind her back. “Or listen. Close your ears!” she commands.

“I can help.”

“No!” she shouts, panic filling her features, her hands shielding very little from what I can see on the floor. “Look away. Please.”

I turn my back to her, but not before I catch sight of little foil wrappers. Lots of them. Buttons are clicked, the buzzing stops, and the sound of crinkling is heard as she gathers the packets that scrape against the floor.

Although I have no right to have any say in her life, I didn’t need the in-my-face reminder of her . . . I clear my throat . . . activities with other men. Sure, she had . . . has every right to a sexual social life, but I prefer to block out that aspect and never think of her with another man again. “Don’t worry—”

“Worried? Try mortified.”

Though I probably shouldn’t disobey her request, I do. Reaching down, I start picking up the packets that skid next to me, giving her credit where it’s due to help temper her reddening cheeks. “You’re being responsible.” Tossing the packets in the drawer, I add, “And taking care of yourself.”