“I know plenty about girls like her, but thanks.”
“I’m just saying, she’s not the type to be happy with a quick fuck and an even quicker good-bye.”
“Jesus. How much of an asshole do you think I am? I like her. I genuinely like being around her. I can get to know a girl without having to sleep with her.”
“So . . . you’re just friends?”
“We’re just none of your business.”
Brookes lifts his hands in surrender. “Got it. I wasn’t saying anything about you, man. You’re a good guy. You two just live at different speeds, and I don’t want to see her get hurt trying to keep up with you. And if something like that did happen, I sure don’t want to see what this house will be like with Dylan and Silas pissed at you.”
“When are you going to start dating someone so I can ask you a bunch of annoying, intrusive questions?”
He only smirks in response.
It drives me fucking nuts that he’s always in the middle of everyone else’s business, but we know so little about him. But the dude’s super private, and I don’t have a weird intuitive superpower to just know what people are feeling. That would make my life a hell of a lot easier.
Twenty minutes later, I decide that Brookes is right. I am an asshole.
Because even though I should stay away from Nell . . . I can’t.
Which is why I’m standing on her porch now, coffee in hand, knocking on her door at ten thirty on a Sunday morning. Thank God Dylan is an early riser. She swung by the house about an hour ago to pick Silas up for some charity something or other. If I hadn’t already heard Silas say he was in love with that girl, I would have known it for sure this morning. Standing in the kitchen, he looked exhausted and ready to murder anything that moved. But when Dylan let herself in, the big guy practically melted at her feet.
I raise my fist to knock on Nell’s door again, but hesitate.
I watched Dylan wrap Silas around her finger this morning, and I’m allowing practically the same thing to happen to me, except I’m not in a relationship. I’m not in love. I’m not looking for a future with Nell.
So why can’t I just walk away like Brookes wants me to? Why can’t I chalk it up to a hot make-out session that’s never going to go any further, and cut my losses? Why can’t I do that?
The door opens, and my stomach dips at the sight of Nell’s bleary eyes and rumpled hair. She squints at me, and then winces at the sunlight, instinctively taking a step back into the house.
I step in after her without waiting for an invitation, and shut the door firmly behind me.
“I brought coffee,” I say, lifting the tray up into her line of sight.
“Shhh!” She holds one hand up to me and the other to her forehead.
“I think,” she says, her voice raspy, “there’s a herd of elephants in my head.”
“Welcome to the world of hangovers, sweetheart.”
She blinks at me, then says matter-of-factly, “I’m going back to bed.”
She shuffles down the hallway, and I follow her, still holding the coffee carrier and resisting the urge to laugh. Then she swings her bedroom door wide, and doesn’t bother to close it before tumbling headlong into her bed. Again, I take that as permission, closing the door in case Dylan comes home unexpectedly.
Before Nell can slip back into sleep, I force the coffee into her hand.
“Drink a little of this,” I tell her. “It’ll help clear up the headache and nausea.” She doesn’t look like she believes me, but she takes a sip anyway. “Aspirin will help, too, if you have some.”
“Bathroom,” she says, and I go out to the hallway bathroom. I find a bottle in the second cabinet I open.
When I return to her room, she asks, “You find it?”
“I did. Right next to your box of tampons. The things I endure for you, woman.” She rolls her eyes and takes the aspirin, and she drinks about half the coffee before placing the cup on the nightstand and sinking back against her pillows. She must be feeling better because she finally asks the question I’d expected to hear the second she opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
I shrug, toe off my sneakers, and throw myself down on the covers on the other side of her bed. She groans when the mattress bounces, but other than that doesn’t complain.
“I knew you’d be miserable this morning . . .”
“And you decided that was something you needed to see?”
“I decided I could be of some help. I’ve had more than my fair share of hangovers. When that coffee kicks in all the way, we’ll get you showered and dressed, and then we’ll go out for some greasy breakfast. You’ll be good as new in no time.”
“You’ve done this more than once? Are you crazy? I never want to drink again.”
“Everybody says that. If you don’t, you’re not doing it right.”
“I don’t feel like I did anything right.”
“You checked another thing off your list, didn’t you?”
She throws an arm over her eyes in lieu of an answer, and after a minute or so of silence, she asks, “Why are you really here?”
“I told you, I—”
“If you feel sorry for me because of what happened last night or what I said, don’t. Please. I’d really rather you just leave.”
“I can’t do that. Sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because last time I let you get away from me, you called some giant ginger-bearded monster to get you drunk, and look how well that turned out. Face it. You need me.”
She makes a groan that sounds vaguely laughlike. “Matt is not a monster.”
“We’ll agree to disagree.”
She sighs, and rolls on her side to face me. I suck in a breath because even hungover, she’s beautiful. And that fiery, challenging look in her eyes always goes straight to my cock.
“And if I had wanted to call you?” she asks. “I don’t have your number.”
“You could have just thought of me. I would have known and come running. I’m practically a superhero in that regard.”
“Riiight.”
“Why so disbelieving? Unless you thought of me, and it didn’t work? Were you thinking of me last night, girl genius?”
“Not even a little bit.”