Page 70 of Give In

“I’m a big boy. You were upfront with me early on, and I know where we stand. You don’t have to worry, okay, gorgeous?”

God, he’s a good guy.

Way better than the asshole who’s probably in bed with the bombshell brunette.

I wonder if she’s the same brunette he was with at the restaurant when I went with Brooks…

My own anger and hurt melded with the unsurmountable rage that stemmed from the sacred sisterhood-bond.

Has he been spending all this time toying with me while he has a girlfriend?

Or a wife?

I fought back the crushing wave of nausea and jealousy. Had I been sober, I may have driven back, confronted him, ratted him out to his boo, and then teamed up with her to kick him in the junk until it fell off.

But alcohol had managed to soothe the wrathful beast in me, acting more as an upper than a depressant.

Dropping to my ass, I stored my rage away for another day.

“I’m gonna crash on the couch,” Brooks said, taking a step away.

“No, that’s not fair. I’ll move to the couch.” I scooched over. “Or we can share the bed.”

“You sure?”

If I didn’t count work—which I definitely didnot—shared personal space and physical contact were both things I wasn’t used to. Hugs and other forms of affection were in short supply growing up. The first time my friend Ashley’s mom had hugged me, I’d gone still as a statue. I hadn’t missed the sadness in her eyes she’d tried to mask, but I also hadn’t understood it.

But drunk and sad and numb and pretending, I found myself craving a hug. Comfort.

Scooching over, I flopped down and rolled my million-pound head to look at him. “I’m good. Really.”

After turning out the light, Brooks climbed in and laid on his back, staying as far to the side as he could without falling off.

I may have been drunk, but even I picked up on the tension emanating from him.

A few silent minutes ticked by before I heard a rustle. He must’ve turned toward me, because his breath fanned my face when he asked, “Do you, umm, want to cuddle?”

Just pull me to you, dammit.

Like when—

I was grateful for the darkness when my face twisted into a nasty sneer of disgust. At Professor Caine. But mostly at myself.

Why am I so fucked-up?

Way too drunk to even attempt that kind of existential crisis, I rolled to the side and put my head on Brooks’ chest.

Once I was settled, he wrapped his arm around my shoulders. His palm moved soothingly along my upper arm.

“Night, Brooks,” I whispered, placing my hand on his stomach as I curled closer.

He continued stroking my arm, and with my hand placement, I could feel the way his muscles moved with the motion. Absentmindedly, I began rubbing along his abs, fascinated by the way the hard ridges bounced and tightened under my palm.

So absorbed in what I considered to be a very scientific study, it took me a minute to realize his path had changed, his hand trailing from the top of my arm down my back and then up again. His heart pounded in my ear—no longer a calm beat.

My chest tightened with teasing anticipation. It wasn’t sizzle or crackle, but I didn’t care.

Sizzle and crackle came before an explosion. And explosions hurt.