Candy Ever After (Hot Candy 2)

Not like Joel doesn’t do it. Not like I haven’t fucking heard him before—and jacked off quietly on the other side of the wall, listening.

Anyway, he doesn’t know that, so what’s his deal? I’ve done my best to stay out of his hair.

Throwing my legs off the couch, I rub my hands over my face trying to convince my brain to start firing again, and I get up.

Fall back into the couch, rub my face some more.

Then attempt the standing-upright thing again.

It works this time around, and I take some stumbling steps toward the kitchen, when a hand pushes me back down on the couch—oof—and pushes a steaming mug of coffee under my nose.

“Drink.”

“Like Alice in fucking wonderland,” I mutter but take the mug and sip at it, scalding my tongue. Still, it’s black and loaded with sugar, the way I like it. “Will it make me shrink or grow?”

My eyes are finally open, and they widen more when Joel sits down beside me, heat seeping into me from where our legs touch.

Schooling my face into a scowl, I drink more coffee, not giving a shit if my tongue blisters. “Had a good night?”

“Fucking awesome.”

“Where were you?”

“Who are you, my mom?”

We sit in seething silence. Well, I sit in seething silence. Joel’s probably grinning inwardly. Bastard.

Wait, he’s grinning outwardly, too.

“What am I missing?” I grumble, narrowing my eyes at him.

And finally take in his running shoes and outfit. The light bulb goes on in a flash.

“You went running.”

“You’re a fucking genius.”

“So you stayed the night here?”

“Where else would I stay, dumbass? On the street? Or with my parents?” He gives a slight shudder at the thought. “You never stirred when I came back inside. I swear I’ve never seen a guy in deeper sleep unless it was a coma. I even held a mirror in front of your mouth to make sure you were breathing.”

“Haha. You’re so fucking funny.” But the weight is off my chest. Fucker didn’t stay out. He wasn’t that upset. It’s okay.

It’d damn well better be.

He stretches, and my gaze follows the movement, the muscles rippling in his chest, the strip of golden flesh revealed when his T-shirt rides up. “Why did you sleep on the sofa? What were you watching?”

I wasn’t watching anything, I was fucking waiting for you, dipshit. “Football highlights,” I lie.

“You’re not sleeping enough.”

Say what? His statement hangs in the air between us, and I freeze like soon-to-be roadkill caught in the headlights.

He has never seemed to take notice before. Sure he’s my friend and sure he cooks for me sometimes. Forces me to do laundry and change my bed sheets once in a while, that sort of thing. And I could never ask for more, not from Joel who’s had my back since we met at school years back.

Who knows so much about me—though not all—and hasn’t given up on my sorry self.

And I don’t know how to deal with this.