Brewer throws his palms up. “Fuck man, got it. I’m just sayin’ what everyone else knows.”
“And if I hear you repeat it, you’ll have to have your jaw wired shut.”
“Message received, Pierce.”
“Fuck off, Brewer.”
I make my way to Ivy, leaving Brewer without a goodbye or a second glance. I fucking hate it when guys think they can talk shit about Ivy to me just because she likes to party.
So, she hooks up. So what? So do lots of people. So do all the guys who comment on it. Do I like it? No. But is it up to me? Also no. And it’s certainly not up to any of these judgmental fuckers, either. They’d be lucky to be chosen by Ivy. If she wants to go out every single night and troll for dick with Jesse, that’s her business. But it doesn’t give anyone free rein to talk shit about her.
“Ivy,” I greet her stiffly, still keyed up from my exchange with Brewer.
“Kelley,” she replies with a grin, dimple on full display, and immediately my muscles loosen. I’m fucking weak for that damn dimple. She holds up a take-out bag. “Food to buy your love?”
I gotta laugh at the way her lips quirk up, but when my attention starts to slide down her body, I look away. The way the fabric hugs her curves... How can she be this gorgeous in just leggings and a t-shirt? My t-shirt.
After the busy day I’ve had, seeing Ivy is the sweetest kind of torture, and all I want to do is sweep her into my arms and kiss her, passionate and deep.
But I can’t.
So instead, I settle for a friendly side-hug and another dimpled smile.
Being in love with your best friend means being painfully aware of the line and constantly toeing it. Giving yourself just enough to take the edge off, but never enough to satisfy the craving.
I’ve gotten good at repressing most of these feelings over the last few years. Somedays, I can almost forget that Ivy is my own personal siren and nearly everything she does turns me on.
But then other days, she struts up to me wearing tight as fuck yoga pants, one of my t-shirts, and carrying food, and I’m a fucking goner. I have to swallow before I respond.
“Depends on what it is,” I joke.
“Burger from Mac’s Grille.”
“Cheddar cheese?”
She nods seriously. “Lettuce, onion, pickle. No tomato or mayo.”
“Steak fries?”
“Kelley, I’m not a monster. You know I got the steak fries.”
“I don’t know. You forget I’ve seen you before coffee. You could give Freddy Krueger a run for his money.”
She gasps out a laugh and elbows me in the side.
“Or when you’ve pulled a series of all-nighters? You walk just like Mike Myers and you’ve got a temper to match.”
She puts on an angry face, but her lips twitch at the sides.
“That time you got a cold during midterms, you were something straight out of The Ring, I swear.” I’m not exaggerating this one. She didn’t shower for days, so her hair was a mess, she was pale as a ghost—more so than usual—and her voice was so scratchy that it did kind of sound like TV static. Still beautiful, but kind of scary, too.
“Fine,” she snips, squaring her shoulders. “If you think you’ve got jokes then I’ll just eat this myself.” She starts to walk away, but I grab her and slide my arm around her shoulder.
“Okay, okay, I suppose I can spare some love for a cheeseburger from Mac’s.”
“Ick. You’re all sweaty and you smell.” She gives me a light shove, failing to hide her smile. I snatch the bag from her hand with a grin, and she rolls her eyes.
“You just leaving the library?”