Sugar Rush (Friend-Zoned 3)

Nat: Now you get none.

Me: You’re a rugmuncher.

Nat: And you have a hairy asshole.

I burst into laughter. My sister is so vulgar. I love it.

Me: Love you x

Nat: LY2. Can’t wait to see you. Even though you’re a lying sack of shit x

Ahh, feel the love?

I take my suitcases and roll them over to the bedroom. And I stop dead in my tracks. I blink, then back away into the hall. Shaking my head, I tiptoe over to my bedroom.

There’s a man on the bed. A man spread-eagle, face-down, right on my bed.

My heart races.

By the way his back moves up and down in an even motion, I know he’s asleep. My head tells me to call the cops, but if I do that, I need to be sure I’m in danger. A sleeping man on my bed doesn’t seem like much of a threat right now. I think hard for a moment before quietly moving back into the kitchen and going through my purse. I take out my pocket mace and my cell phone, and walk back to my room.

It takes me a full minute for me to realize I have the mace to my ear and my phone held out as a weapon. Genius. I quickly switch them around and enter my bedroom. The man’s sock-covered feet hang over the foot of the bed. Lifting my own foot, I nudge his calf. He grumbles, but doesn’t wake. I nudge him again, harder this time.

A sleepy, “Nik, fuck off,” comes out of the man, and my body goes rigid.

I know that voice.

I really like that voice. Why the hell is he in my apartment? In my bedroom? I lower my mace and clear my throat.

“Fuck off, man. Not kidding.”

I don’t bother with niceties. “You fuck off. This is my apartment.”

His body stiffens. Without another word, he turns over, tilting his head up, blinking up at me. “Helen?”

Oh, man, you’re on a roll, asshole.

I glare. “It’s Helena! Not Helen!”

He looks adorably mussed. His dark brown hair sticks up in the back and he blinks his sleepy golden eyes. His red-rimmed golden eyes. I don’t like that. I frown as I speak, “Are you drunk?”

A look of confusion passes him. “What? No, I’m not drunk.”

“Then why are you here?”

He looks around the room, gathering his bearings before his body slumps. “Oh, shit. I was supposed to be fixing a leaking faucet, but I guess, I…uh…” He scratches at his chin—his amazing, strong, manly chin—and finishes, “…fell asleep.”

My brows rise in disbelief. He watches me closely. We don’t say a word.

I take in a deep breath and respond on an exhale, “Well, if you’re d

one, I need to move my stuff in…without anyone sleeping on my bed,” I look down at my pillow and accuse, “or drooling on my pillows.”

He quickly opens his mouth to defend himself, but turns around to look for himself. “I didn’t drool…” He trails off as he sees the wet spot on my pillow. At least he has the grace to look sheepish. “I can wash that.”

I scoff. “Yeah, right.”

He stands and stretches, but as he lifts his arms over his head, extending his muscular arms as far as they can go, his tee lifts over the waistband of his jeans to reveal low-rise jeans, boxer elastic, and a well sculpted V.