A Long Time Coming

Those pleading green eyes.

The tears falling over her cheeks.

The desperation in her expression. I feel useless.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lia like this. Ever. Which could only mean one thing—she’s not in a good headspace at all, and no way am I going to leave her to herself.

“Of course, I can stay,” I say as I stand and pull her up with me.

Knock. Knock.

“Miss Lia,” the attendant says. “Are you ready to try on some dresses?”

Lia looks up at me with a terrified expression, so I go to the door and part it open. “Actually, I’m going to help her into her dresses, if you don’t mind. Can you pull a few simple gowns with some of that lace detail on them? Especially the one that is upfront on the mannequin.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Cane.”

I shut the door and turn back to Lia. “If I’m going to wiggle you in and out of these things, then we’re going to put you in dresses that are actually your style. None of this poofy, embellished bullshit. I’m no expert, but these are atrocious.” That makes her smile, but it’s not the full kind of smile I’m used to. It’s a blip. A blip will have to do.

“They’re not great,” she says, walking up to them. She picks up one of the silky ones and says, “This is the same fabric as the robe I’m wearing. People would be able to see every lump and bump on my body.”

“Well, for one, you don’t have lumps and bumps besides the two on your chest, and secondly, I’m not sure those are the kind of dresses you wear undergarments with.”

She cringes. “I need undergarments. I’m not one to show nipple to a crowd of people.”

“Only a select few?” I joke around.

“Obviously,” she says before leaning against the wall of the dressing room.

“What are you doing?” we hear The Beave ask the attendant. “Why are you taking in more dresses? We haven’t even seen her try on the first ones.”

Lia’s eyes plead with me, so I excuse myself from the dressing room and walk up to The Beave, who’s sitting in a chair with an untouched glass of champagne in her hand.

“Mrs. Beaver, could I possibly have a word with you?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.

“Well, of course,” she says as she stands, and together, we walk off to the side, out of earshot. If anything, this woman likes to uphold appearances. She doesn’t want anyone to hear a conversation they shouldn’t. “What on earth is happening in that dressing room?”

“The dresses that were chosen are beautiful, but they’re not quite Lia’s style.” I lower my voice some more and say, “She’s very upset right now, and I don’t want to cause a scene, so I thought we could try on some dresses that suit her more.”

“Upset? For what reason? This should be fun.”

“I agree. That’s why we shouldn’t dictate what she wears and be happy for what she thinks looks beautiful on her.”

The Beave’s eyes narrow. “Are you saying that I’m trying to be too controlling?”

Whatever gave you that idea?

Insert giant eye roll.

“Not at all,” I reply with a smile. “I know you’re trying to be helpful, but I say let’s give Lia a moment to pick, and then if she can’t find anything she likes, we offer suggestions. Does that work?”

“I suppose.”

“Great.” I hold my arm out to her, and she slips her hand against my forearm so I can escort her back to her seat. “I apologize for being late, by the way. I had a meeting that held me up.”

“You are a busy man. How is the lawsuit?”

“Still confidential but should be brushed away soon. Huxley has it all under control.”

“I would assume he does.”

I help her take a seat and then ask, “Do you need me to get you anything, or are you good right now?”

“Quite well, thank you.”

“Okay, then I’m going to go help Lia. We’ll be right out.”

I go back to the dressing room, knock, and then enter, only to find Lia standing in the middle of the room, wearing an off-the-shoulder cream lace dress that accentuates her waist and gently flows to the ground.

Holy.

Fucking.

Shit.

My mouth goes dry as my eyes slowly work their way up her torso, to her neckline, and then to her face and . . . something hits me. Something so strong, so foreign that I don’t know how to categorize it. Like this overwhelming sense of . . . breathlessness. For a moment, my heart actually stopped beating, and the world stopped spinning, and everything was on pause as she came into view.

“What do you think?” she asks as the attendant exits the dressing room, leaving me alone with Lia.

What feels like a million butterflies take flight in my stomach as I attempt to put words to what’s going on in my head.

“Is it bad?” she asks as she turns toward the mirror to look at herself, revealing a low cut, showing off her slender back. My eyes drag down to where the fabric hits just above the curve of her ass. “I think it’s kind of whimsical, but do you think it’s too much? It was the one that called out to me the most.” She turns back around again, and her stunning eyes plead with me to say something. “You hate it.”

I shake my head.

Holy fuck do I NOT hate it.

There’s nothing to hate about it.

It’s . . . Jesus Christ . . . she’s . . . she’s fucking gorgeous.

Swallowing hard, I say, “No, I don’t hate it. You look . . . fuck, you look stunning, Ophelia.” My words sound ragged, untamed, and unpolished, like something is stuck in my throat, and I can’t quite get it out.

The prettiest fucking smile I’ve ever seen crosses her lips as she says, “Really?”

I grip the back of my neck as I give her another once-over. “Yeah, you look—” I swallow hard. Just . . . fuck. She looks so good, so fucking gorgeous that my mouth keeps watering, my heart is beating a mile a minute, and I want to just . . . reach out and touch her. “Wow,” I answer. “Just . . . really fucking beautiful.”

“You’re blushing,” she says.

I can feel the heat in my cheeks.

“Yeah, I just, uh, wasn’t expecting to walk in here and see you in a dress.”

Or to lose my breath.

Or to feel this urge to . . . fuck me, to kiss her.

That’s what it is. That’s what this heavy, foggy feeling is in my chest.

The butterflies.

The unintelligible thoughts in my head.

The desire pulsing up my legs.

The thought of kissing her consumes me, and I’ve never had that thought before, not since the first night I met her. It’s like those ten years have rushed back in a fury, like a snapshot of time unfolding in a blink of an eye, taking me all the way back to the moment I ran into her in the hallway. Where I first saw those perfectly placed freckles of hers and the confusion in her expression.

Where her eyes fixated on me for the first time through her purple-rimmed glasses.

When the uneasy yet confident side of her personality shone bright.

I thought she was so fucking beautiful.

So funny.

So charming.

So real.

And then I found out how smart she was, how she had all the same likes and interests as I did. Throughout that night as we played Scrabble, I kept thinking I was going to ask her out when all was said and done, but then . . . she asked to be friends. She needed to find a friend. Instead of acting on my initial reaction, I pushed it away, only for it to perform a full-frontal attack on me when I was least expecting it.

Right now.

In this fucking moment.

She turns back toward the mirror, and I catch her gaze finding mine in the reflection. “Should I show her?” she asks, her voice laced with insecurity. “I don’t want her to hate it.”

“I don’t care what she says. We’re getting that dress,” I say, my voice coming out more breathless than I want it to.

“But it’s the first one. Isn’t that a bad sign? Shouldn’t I try on more?”

I shake my head. “No, sometimes, you just know.” I wet my lips. “And this dress, Lia, this one is for you.”

She shyly smiles and then turns around again and walks up to me. I watch her every step, my body stiffening with every inch she nears. And as she presses her hand to my chest, my stomach bottoms out, and my legs tremble beneath me. “Thank you for being here, Breaker. I don’t think you will ever know how much this means to me.”

“No, uh, problem,” I say, swallowing again.

She stands on her toes and presses the lightest of kisses to my cheek. Even though it means nothing other than friendship to Lia, to me, it feels like she just branded me and marked me as hers for eternity.

And then, without another word, she opens the door and shows The Beave her dress, leaving me in a state of upheaval.

What the fuck just happened?

BREAKER: Hey, do you think you could meet me for a cup of coffee in like ten minutes or sooner or whenever? I just need to talk, and I don’t want to talk to my brothers because they’re going to give me shit. I need someone neutral.

Banner: Color me intrigued. Want to come over to my place? Just in case you need privacy?

Breaker: That would be perfect. I’m driving over now.

Hands on the steering wheel, I keep my eyes on the road as I work my way across town to Banner’s apartment, which is just ten minutes away from where I live.

I met Banner through Ryot Bisley, his brother. Ryot and Banner both came up with this great idea called The Jock Report—a social media conglomerate for everything sports where the athletes get to talk to their fans one-on-one. When Ryot told JP and Huxley about the idea, they immediately wanted to invest because they knew it was going to be huge. And it has been. Ryot and Banner, who were living in Chicago at the time—Ryot is a retired third baseman from the Chicago Bobbies—moved out here to California, where they opened an office and have quickly taken the sports world by storm.

I got to know Banner on a more personal level and realized we’re pretty similar. Although he is a bit of a player, whereas I, apparently, haven’t needed to play around. But we do both like computers and have built our own. We also determined that our brothers like to gang up on us whenever they get the chance, so we’ve formed a younger-brother alliance. Talking to him about what’s on my mind will be perfect because he knows what the wrath of an older brother can do to you.

I turn right onto his street and then see an open parking spot right in front of his apartment building. Must be my lucky day—if that’s what you want to call it.

Once parked, I hop out of my car, lock up, and head straight to his apartment. I hate showing up empty-handed, but when it’s last minute, there’s not much I can do about that.

When I reach his apartment, I give it a knock, and I hear him call out, “It’s open.”

Pushing through his front door, I spot him in the kitchen with two bottles of beer in hand. “Sounded like a beer kind of moment, am I right?”

“Really fucking right,” I reply.

He nods toward his balcony. “Let’s sit outside.”

Banner has a really nice place. It consumes the entire top floor of his building with floor-to-ceiling windows, a massive open floor plan—more space than one person needs—and a large wraparound balcony. It’s probably the type of apartment I’d live in if I wasn’t living next to Lia.

I follow him out to the balcony, through his black-framed pocket sliding glass door, and then sit at his outdoor dining set under a black and white striped umbrella.

“I know I’ve only been here twice, but I don’t think I’ll ever get over your place,” I say.

“Yeah, I feel pretty lucky. Although Ryot keeps trying to get me to move out to Malibu with him and Myla. Not ready for that yet. I love the beach, but out there, it almost feels like I’m settling down, and I’m not at that point in my life just yet.”

I chuckle. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you seeing someone?”

He drags his hand over his face in pain. “Don’t get me started on that. This gathering is about you, not me.”

“We can save some time at the end to dig deep into your non-relationship.”

“Ehh, that’s okay. I think I’m good.” He takes a sip of his beer and says, “So what’s going on? Your text read desperate need of help, and if anything, I like a good story, so tell me.”

I take a sip of my beer as well—actually more like a gulp—and say, “You know Lia is getting married, right?”

“Yeah, and you’re the man of honor, right?”

“Right.” I look out toward the skyline, unsure how to do this. “Hell, I don’t think what I’m going to say will make a lot of sense. It will sound like a bunch of rambling, but I don’t know how to talk about this without rambling.”

“Good thing you came to me. I’m good at deciphering rambling. Lay it on me.”

“Well, to begin with, I was shocked when Lia told me she was engaged. She and Brian, they, I don’t know, have a different relationship. I feel like when you’re dating someone, you’re all in, right? Like, you want to spend as much time with them as possible.”

Banner nods in agreement. “Yeah, I know that feeling.”

“Well, they aren’t like that. They can go a few nights without seeing each other, and I always thought that was weird, so when she said he proposed, and she said yes, I was truly shocked.”

“Yeah, I would be too.”

“And then she told me they’re getting married in five weeks, well, more like four weeks now. And I don’t know, this sense of panic consumed me. I couldn’t quite place it other than I was afraid to lose her.”

“That’s natural since you guys are so close.” Banner takes a sip of his beer.

“Right,” I say, gesturing my hand toward him. “That’s what I thought too. We are so close that I’m worried about losing that friendship. And I don’t get along with her fiancé as much as I probably should, so I made an effort to reach out to him and solve that issue because I didn’t want anything weird between us, anything that he could use against me so she doesn’t hang out as much.”

“Very smart.”

“But then he ended up setting me up with this girl, Birdy. On a double date.”

Banner winces. “That smells like a whole bunch of awkward.”

“It was. Very awkward, but Birdy turned out to be really cool and funny, and we’ve hung out a few times since.”

“Okay, any chemistry there?”

“That’s the problem.” I lean back in my chair and take a sip of my beer. “I’ve kissed her twice now, and although the thought of being intimate with someone was appealing, each time I kissed her, it wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. It just felt normal. Like every other woman I’ve ever kissed, and I don’t know, I feel like there should be a feeling that’s more than normal, right?”

“If you want to get down to it, yeah. When you kiss someone, someone you think you could date or be with, there should be a spark. Especially that first kiss. The first kiss tells you everything you need to know.”

“There wasn’t any spark. Not even a blip.” I sigh heavily. “And then . . . today.”

“Now we’re getting to the good stuff,” Banner jokes. I don’t mind because he’s keeping it really light, which I appreciate.

“Lia and I got in a fight two nights ago, and today was wedding dress shopping day. She told me not to come because of the fight, and there was no way I’d let her do that alone, so I showed up, and the relief on her face was something I wasn’t expecting. And she clung to me like I was her lifesaver.”

“Uh-huh . . .” Banner drags out.

I press my lips together and finally say, “Well, when I saw her in her dress . . .” I shake my head. “Dude, I swear to God it was an out-of-body experience. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like it. My mouth went dry, I started to sweat, but I was cold at the same time. I couldn’t breathe, but my heart was beating so hard that I thought my chest would explode. And then . . .” I look away. “When she made eye contact with me, it was like a million butterflies took flight in my stomach, and I swear to you, at that moment, I had this overwhelming need to kiss her. Like, it was pulling me to the point that I almost did it. I’ve never felt that way, ever, besides the first day I ever met her, and now, well, I’m totally fucked in the head, and I don’t know what’s going on.”

Banner slowly nods his head, taking it all in. He sips his beer and then sets the glass bottle on the table. “I’ll tell you what’s going on.” He looks me in the eyes. “You’re in love with your best friend, and you just finally realized it.”

“Come on, dude,” I say, groaning. “That’s what my brothers would have said.”

“Because they’re right, and I know you don’t want to hear it, but why do you feel like you don’t have a spark when you kiss other women? It’s because deep down, you know they’re not Lia. These weird out-of-body feelings you’re having are because the woman you love is getting married in four weeks, and you’re panicking about it.”

“But . . .”

“No buts, man. Face the facts, you love her, and the sooner you admit that to yourself, the better.”

I drag my hand over my forehead, his words stabbing me in the stomach, in the chest, racking up my anxiety.

Is he right?

Do I love her, and I’m just realizing it now?

My mind conjures up the image of her in her dress and how I felt, how I wanted to be the man who kissed her in it, how I couldn’t take my eyes off her, how I felt absolutely sick knowing that dress wasn’t meant for me but for Brian instead.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I say as I look up at Banner. “Fuck, I think I like her.”

Banner shakes his head. “Nah, man. You love her. End of discussion.”

I PACE MY LIVING ROOM, Banner’s words on replay in my head.

I try to tell myself he’s not right.

That it’s conjecture that seems like it could be spot on, but really isn’t.

That maybe I’m just reading all these feelings wrong.

But every time I hear her move around in her apartment, my skin breaks out into a clammy sweat, because I’m pretty sure . . . Banner is right.

After I left his place, I came back to mine, where I opened another beer, and I’ve walked circles around my apartment. Never stopping, just pacing, trying to get a grip on these feelings, trying to convince myself that Banner is wrong, that I’m wrong, that all of this is fucking wrong.

Panic.

Nausea.

Worry.

It’s swirling around, making me feel crazy. Making me uncomfortable. Making me think things I shouldn’t be thinking like . . .

What if I had kissed her in the dressing room? What would she have done?

What if I marched over to her apartment right now and told her how I’m feeling?

What if I pathetically asked her to reconsider the wedding?

Knock. Knock.

Oh fuck.

That has to be her. No one else visits me.

Unsure of what to do, I clench my sweaty palms and say, “Uh, yeah?”

“Breaker? It’s me. Open up.”

“Oh, uh . . . Lia, is that you?” I even roll my eyes at myself.

“Yes, Breaker. What are you doing? Open up.”

“Ha, sorry,” I call out, even though I don’t move. “Um, just give me a second.” I spin around in a circle, trying to figure out what to do as if something can be done.

Nothing, you dipshit, nothing can be done. It’s not like you can take a washcloth and soap to your feelings and scrub them away quickly. Doesn’t work like that.

Face the facts. This is going to be awkward for you.

Reluctantly and with heavy steps, I head over to the door, open it, and then lean on the edge, attempting to look like the epitome of a casual man NOT in love with his best friend. “Hey there, uh, how are you? Doing good? Wow, the heat today, am I right?”

Her brow curls up in question. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird, I’m just . . . uh, striking up a conversation. Am I not allowed to talk about the weather with my best friend? Anyway, is there anything I can help you with?”

With a skeptical look on her face, she says, “Can I stay here tonight?”

“Uhhhh, what now?” I ask, blinking a few times.

“Brian left for San Jose tonight for an emergency meeting with one of his clients, and he won’t be home until Sunday. I’m just, I’m not feeling super great, and I don’t want to be alone.”

“Ah, I see.” I nod slowly.

“So can I stay the night?”

Ha. Spend the night here with me? That seems like an absolute disaster waiting to happen. I’m barely hanging on by a thread, and the cure to all of that is a temptation I can’t consume.

What could I possibly say that would communicate I’m pretty sure I love you and therefore you can’t be here?

There’s nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

So . . .

“Of course,” I squeak out. “Yeah, you know, because you’ve done that before. You’ve stayed the night, so that shouldn’t be weird.”

Her brows narrow even more. “Why are you all fidgety and sweating on your upper lip?”

“Sweating?” I wipe my mouth. “That’s not sweat. Probably just leftover residue from my drink.”

She eyes me suspiciously. “You’re acting weird, Breaker.”

“You know, I had a beer.” I pat my stomach. “Might have been an off-brand beer, probably isn’t settling well. Maybe I should just let you get to sleep. The guest room is made up.” I move to the side so she can enter the apartment. “Go ahead, make yourself at home.”

“I don’t want to go to bed yet. It’s only eight.”

Feels like freaking eleven at night after the day I’ve had.

“Huh, well, guess that might be a touch early.” I let out a long whistle. “I guess we could hang out.”

“Yeah, I was hoping we could.” She clutches her arms around her waist, and I realize she’s sad. And if I’m sure of anything, it’s that I care about Lia more than anything, more than anyone, so my instincts kick in.

“Everything okay?” I ask, putting aside that I have feelings for my best friend, and now I don’t know how to act around her.

“No.” Her eyes brim with tears. “I’m not okay at all.”

Shit.

Time to set aside my feelings and focus on her.

I pull her into my apartment and shut the door behind her before bringing her over to the couch and taking a seat.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m sad.” She swipes at her nose. “Today was surreal, a moment I thought I would share with my mom one day, and the fact that she wasn’t there, it’s just killing me, Breaker. I keep wondering, would she have liked the dress I picked out? Would she have cried? Would she have taken a picture with me celebrating the moment?”

“Yes,” I say flatly. “Yes, to all of those things.”

“I love that dress,” she says. “But a part of me just feels empty about everything, and I wish I could be happy about getting married, but I have my doubts, I have my worries.”

“About Brian?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she answers quietly. “I love him, but I feel like my entire life has been strained ever since he proposed. I don’t feel right, not like myself. I feel trapped in this little box of what’s expected of me, and now, I think I’m starting to lose my mind over it.” Her eyes meet mine, and she says, “When we were fighting, I had no one to turn to. Not a parent, not a friend, and I didn’t want to tell Brian because he probably would have used it as fodder as to why I shouldn’t hang out with you, despite him saying he’s okay with our relationship.” She glances down at her hands. “I’m starting to realize how much I lost when my parents died.” Her eyes well up again, and she leans back on the couch, crying.

I don’t know what to say, because I agree with her—she lost so much when she lost her parents. I think she settled with Brian because he was there at the right time, but how the hell am I supposed to say that to her?

She’s already going through a rough time, and clearly, my motives have been skewed ever since my realization this morning, so instead of saying something, I say nothing and just listen to her cry while I hold her hand.

After what feels like an hour, she turns toward me and says, “I just want to go to bed.”

“Okay.” I stand and pull her up with me. “Let me get you situated in the guest room.”

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t want to be alone. Can I sleep with you?”

That would be a hard no.

Very hard no.

No way can I let the woman I love sleep in my bed while she belongs to another man. Nope, that’s asking for trouble.

“Uh, don’t you think that might be a little inappropriate?” I ask gently, trying not to rock the boat on the emotions.

“We’ve done it before. Why would it be any different now?” she asks.

Very valid point.

Because we have done it before, so . . . what’s changed?

Well, you love her, that’s changed, and you’re still trying to sort through those untimely feelings.

She’s engaged, that’s what is different. That’s a sound excuse. And will save me from utter embarrassment and the possible agony of sleeping in the same bed with her.

Yup, let’s go with the engaged thing.

“Well, you’re engaged now.” The moment the words slip out of my mouth, I watch her shoulders droop, and her lashes flutter down in disappointment.

It’s like a fucking knife to the heart, twisting and gutting me as I watch her slowly turtle in on herself. Yup, you did that, you ass.

“But,” I find myself saying like a dipshit, “if that doesn’t bother you, then sure.”

Her eyes float up to mine. “It doesn’t.”

I plaster on the fakest smile I can muster. “Okay, well, great. Let me just lock up and get ready. You know where your toothbrush is.”

Yup, we’ve done this enough that she has a toothbrush here.

It started back in college when she’d sleep on the futon in my dorm, and I’d sleep on my bed. We’d spend countless hours talking until one of us passed out.

When we graduated and our beds got bigger, we’d just share a bed and fall asleep facing each other. The next morning, we’d order donuts, drink coffee, and play dominoes.

But this feels different.

My body feels itchy with her around.

My mind feels like mush, like I can’t conjure up the right thing to say.

So this should be fun. *thumbs up*

I pour out the rest of my beer and lock up my apartment. Then I wait a few seconds in the living room, mentally preparing myself. Sure, it’s the same bed, but it’s not like we’ll be touching.

It’s not like I’ll be sharing a pillow with her.

There will be at least two feet of neutral zone between us, and if I’m good at anything, it’s respecting the neutral zone. I’m a gentleman, after all.

With a touch more confidence, I make my way to the bedroom, where I find Lia sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing one of my T-shirts.

Fucking . . . great.

The sleeves swallow up her shoulders while the shirt extends to her mid-thigh, covering enough, but making me sweat from the mere thought that her naked body is under that fabric. My fabric.

“I borrowed a shirt. I hope that’s okay.”

“Yup,” I squeak and then clear my throat. “Sorry, don’t know why that came out like that.” I awkwardly chuckle, and then in a deep voice, I say, “Yup, all good.” When she just lightly smiles, I point my thumb toward the bathroom. “Just going to get ready, and then we can do all the sleeping because I love sleep. It is truly the natural medicine we all need in life.”

“Are you okay?” she asks with an inquisitive look.

“Great. Real great.” I fist-pump the air. “Sleepover. Huzzah.”

Huzzah?

Jesus Christ, Breaker.

Why don’t you just go stick your head in a microwave after that?

I slap my hands together. “So yeah. Brushing teeth now.”

I turn on my heel, head into the bathroom, and shut the door.

I grip the counter, glance up into the mirror to see how truly pathetic I am, and that’s when I spot her pink lace bra hanging on one of the hooks behind me.

Oh hell.

My muscles contract, creating a tangled, claustrophobic sensation to squeeze me so hard that all air escapes my lungs.

Panic. It pierces through me because yeah, that’s her fucking bra.

Her bra that’s probably warm from wearing it all day.

Her bra that cups and props her tits up.

Her bra that makes me wonder just how fucking good she probably looks in it.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Uh, Lia, you left your bra hanging in here.”

“I know. I didn’t want to fold it,” she calls out.

“Okay, but why isn’t it on?” I ask stupidly. I know why it’s not on. Who wants to wear a fucking bra to bed? Not me.

I hear her step up to the door and then open it. She pokes her head in and says, “I never wear a bra to bed. Breaker, I’ve hung my bra there before.”

Ehhh, has she, though? I think I would have noticed, especially with the cup size banging a hole in my brain, that she has big tits. She has big tits.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks, her hand falling to my chest.

“Whoa, hey there, watch out, heh, heh.” I let out a breathy laugh. “Hands to ourselves, let’s remember that.”

“What?” she asks, her face drenched in confusion.

“Um.” I swallow hard. “You just startled me because your hand was cold.”

“You’re wearing a shirt.”

I glance down at my chest. “Oh yeah, well, the fabric must be thin. Brrr, maybe go warm up those frigid paws of yours, don’t want to catch a cold.”

“It’s the middle of summer.” She takes a step back. “If you don’t want me to stay over because you have something else going on, then just tell me, Breaker.”

“No, I have nothing else going on.”

What are you doing, you moron? That was your out!

“Okay, well, then I’ll just let you get ready for bed.”

She moves back toward the bedroom, and I shut the bathroom door behind her.

Jesus Christ.

Get it together, man. You’re better than this. You’re smoother than this. You’re Breaker fucking Cane. Stop acting like a total nitwit, strap on a goddamn pair, and be the best friend this woman needs.

And for fuck’s sake, stop embarrassing yourself.

I take the next few minutes to go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and create a mental wall that is completely impenetrable. Mark my words, when I slip into that bed, there will be no—and I mean NO—romantic thoughts of my best friend. Platonic. That’s what we’re going for. All the platonic-ness one can muster.

Is that even a word?

Doesn’t matter. That’s what’s happening.

Because if anything, I’m a Cane, and Canes are born with the crafty ability to hold strong, to not buckle, and to rely on their mental fortitude to get them through any situation.

There. Pep talk complete.

I exit the bathroom, turn off the light, and head over to the bed where Lia is already resting under the covers, her beautiful, silky hair fanned out against the dark of my pillowcase like a fucking . . . NO!

No thoughts of any fanning hair and how it’s a beautiful contrast against the navy pillowcase.

No goddamn poetic sonnets based around how the moonlight looks on her Irish alabaster skin.

Nothing.

Focus, Cane.

I move toward my side of the bed and ask, “Uh, you comfortable?”

“Always. I love your bed,” she says as she snuggles in even closer.

“Good,” I answer as I slip under the covers and turn off the light, letting the moon illuminate the space through the sheer gray curtains hanging over the window.

I turn toward her in bed, where she scoots closer, her knee knocking with mine.

Watch it, lady. Distance, maintain distance.

“You’re really jittery tonight,” she says. “Is it something I said or did?”

Yes, you just exist. That’s the problem.

“No,” I answer as I stare into her beautiful eyes. “Maybe I’m just restless, you know, with not having a job at the moment.”

“Are you sure? Because you’ve been weird ever since we left the dress shop.”

Because I couldn’t stop thinking how goddamn beautiful you are.

Wait, is that putting up a wall? No, it’s not. Then again, when she stares at me with those large, mossy eyes, I can’t seem to switch my brain back to protective mode.

“Stubbed my toe in there,” I say out of the blue.

“What?” she asks.

“Uh, yeah. Stubbed my toe and haven’t felt right ever since.”

“You’re being stupid,” she says while playfully pushing at my chest. “Is this your way of trying to make me feel better?”

“Yes,” I say, almost out of desperation. “Yup, you know me, always joking around.”

“Well, I appreciate the attempt, but I think I just need to get some sleep and rest my mind.”

“Yeah, might be best.” I smile. “Well, good night.”

“Night, Breaker.”

She turns away from me, and I mentally let out a large sigh. Well, thank God for that. Not sure what I would have done if she wanted to continue to talk. Now, I can just rest here in peace and not worry about staring into her eyes, getting lost in her late-night voice, or even thinking about—

She scoots backward.

Uh, what is she doing?

Then some more.

Excuse me, you’re getting kind of close.

Her ass bumps into my leg.

Warning! Warning! She’s way too close.

“Whatcha got going on there?” I ask her, my body stiff as a board.

“Can you hold me, Breaker?”

Absolutely. Not.

Has she lost her goddamn mind?

Hold her?

In the same bed?

Like . . . she wants us to *gulp* spoon or something. What the hell has gotten into her, and why now? Why, on the day that I realize I love this girl? Is this some sick joke that I’m unaware of? Some prank that I’m caught up in? If so, it’s not fucking funny.

No way on God’s green earth am I about to spoon Lia.

“Please, Breaker. I could really use the comfort.”

Well . . . fuck . . . me.

“Um, do you think Brian would like to know that I held you at night?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” I say. “He would hate it.”

“It’s not like it matters. I’m not cheating on him. You’re my best friend, my family, the only person who can truly make me feel at peace. If you were a girl, I’d ask you to do the same.”

“You would?” I ask.

“Of course. I used to spoon with my mom all the time.”

Ah, so she sees me as a motherly figure. I can’t hear that enough.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” she says in such a defeated tone that I can actually feel my heart twist in my chest.

“No, I can,” I reply quickly. “Just, you know, checking all of my bases is all.” I lift my arm and hover it over her for a few seconds. Do I just . . . cuddle her? Or should I just lightly drape my burly man arm over the curve of her waist to make it seem like we’re spooning, but in reality, I’m just using her as a human armrest?

The human armrest thing feels very rewarding, so I gently place my forearm on her waist, my hand extended straight out and lifting the blankets.

Eh, that doesn’t work, so I lift my arm again and hover. I adjust, touch down on her waist, and notice the same thing.

Nope, back to hover.

I don’t know where to drape. Not over her boobs, those as we found out from her hanging bra are loose and wild at the moment.

There’s her stomach, but is that too intimate?

Which leaves her pelvic area, and well, not so sure that’s a great idea either. Hand to pelvis doesn’t scream platonic, more like one stroke away from legs spread and loud moans.

Luckily, I don’t have to debate it too long because she lowers my arm around her stomach and scoots in closer so her body is plastered against mine.

Right up against me.

Back to chest.

Butt to . . . *gulp* crotch.

Sweet Jesus, man . . . do not get a goddamn boner.

Penis, do you hear me? This is not a moment to defy me. Be a good fucking listener.

Think of flaccid things. FLACCID. Flaccid, floppy, dangly, pendulous . . . limp. There you go.

OH, I could think of things that are so repulsive that I’d rather hurl my head into my trash can than think about.

Ahhh, I know.

I squeeze my eyes shut and conjure up images of JP and his dirty pigeon friend. What’s its name?

Cocoon?

Carl?

“Clementine?” I accidentally say out loud.

“What?” Lia whispers.

“Uh, Clementine,” I repeat, for God knows what reason.

“Like the fruit?”

“Sure,” I answer.

“Why are you saying that?”

“Can’t think of JP’s pigeon friend.”

“Kazoo?”

“Ohhhhh, right.” I smile to myself. “Kazoo.”

“Why are you thinking about JP and Kazoo?”

So I don’t get a boner.

Because your ass is pressed right up against my pelvis, and if I even move a little, I know the friction will be enough to give me a semi.

“He was talking about him earlier today, and I couldn’t think of his name.”

“Oh . . . well, it’s Kazoo.”

“Yup, logged that away.”

She places her hand on top of mine and says, “I think I need to change, Breaker.”

Change her clothes? Into what?

She’s barely wearing anything as it is.

My mind floats to her in lingerie, walking toward me, sexy as shit with her tits . . . NO!

Kazoo, think of Kazoo and the way JP blows kisses at the damn thing. Revolting.

Satisfied, I say, “Do you need pants or something?”

“No, not that kind of change. I mean, like my life needs to change.”

That snaps me out of my “I’m in love with my best friend fog.” “Change? What do you mean, change? You’re perfect as you are, Lia.”

“I feel like I’m in a rut, that I’ve been going through the motions and not truly allowing myself to experience the things I need to experience.”

“What do you mean?” She twists so she’s on her back, and my hand rests directly on her stomach. Her head tilts to the side just enough so our eyes connect in the dim light of the room.

“Ever since my parents passed away, I don’t think I’ve given myself a chance to live. I mean, I’m about to get married in four weeks, and it feels almost like a death sentence rather than a thrilling event. And I’m not sure if that’s because I’m mourning my parents or The Beave is ruining the process, but I’m not having fun. I want to have fun. I want to do things I’ve never done before. I want to live a life my parents wanted me to live, and I don’t think I’ve been doing that.”

My thumb smooths over her stomach, the touch to comfort her. “What are some things you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” she says quietly. “But I think there needs to be a change.”

“If you feel that way, I will one hundred percent support you,” I say, and she shifts so she’s facing me now, her face only inches from mine. Her shirt bunches up around my hand at her waist.

“You will?”

“Of course, Lia, but I need you to know, right now, as you are, you’re perfect, okay?” The way she’s looking at me, her proximity and the feelings pumping through me rapidly, give me my voice. “There’s absolutely nothing I would change. Not your heart and the way you care for the people around you. Not your mind and how you can shift from sassy to intelligent in seconds. Not your soul and the way you carry your scars with pride.” I grip her shirt and repeat, “You are perfect.”

Her mouth parts, her plump lips glistening.

Her eyes widen with each breath she takes.

And it might be my imagination, but I can feel her draw even closer, leaving no space between us.

In the root of my stomach, this deep, twisting, agonizing feeling spreads through me to the tips of my limbs, this urge to touch her, to slip my hand under her shirt and feel her skin, to bring my mouth closer to hers where I’d see if she’s tempted just as much as I am.

“Th-Thank you,” she says finally, her voice soft and sweet.

I wet my lips as I attempt to control my breathing, my hand twisting in the fabric of her shirt just enough that I can feel her warm skin on my wrist. “You don’t need to thank me, Lia. It’s just facts.”

“Still, I needed to hear that. So thank you.”

“Anything for you,” I say as I glance down at her lips and then back up at her eyes.

What I wouldn’t do for those lips right now.

Just one kiss. Just one taste.

From the corner of my eye, I catch her chest rising and falling harder as she moves in an inch.

Fuck me.

I loosen my grip on her shirt and, instead, rest my warm palm against her exposed hip. I find the seam of her underwear and gently press my index finger against it as my blood burns for more. You’re so close, just . . . just slip your finger under the seam, see what she does. Gauge her reaction.

My pulse thunders as I glide my finger along the seam, my mind telling me to stop, my heart screaming at me for more.

I want her so fucking bad that it’s painful. When I gaze into her eyes, I don’t see anything other than admiration. It’s a fucking look from her I will always cherish, I will live for, because it shows me just how much she trusts me.

Even as I’m bordering on crossing a line, she trusts me.

So I slip my finger softly under the seam of her underwear, right on her hip.

She smiles.

My cock springs forward as all the blood rushes down my body as she reaches her hand between us and cups my cheek. Her thumb slides across my scruff, and I freeze in place as she moves in closer.

Fuck. She wants this. Right?

She wants this just as much as me.

I remove my hand and slide it to her back, where her shirt has lifted so I can feel her warm skin at the tip of my pinky. I’m so fucking tempted to slide my fingers down her back, under her underwear, and grip her ass.

But I want to see where she goes with this. I want to see what she wants from me. So I brace myself, waiting, not stopping the way she’s closing in on me, but welcoming it because fuck, I want this.

I should care that she’s engaged.

I should care that we’re best friends and this could ruin everything.

But I don’t because I want her lips. I want to taste them. I want to see if the thought of how she tastes and feels in my arms is just as good as I think it is.

Her mouth grows closer and closer.

My veins feel electric.

My muscles tighten.

My breath seizes in my chest.

And then she presses her lips . . . to my cheek before saying, “Good night, Breaker.” Then she turns back around, snuggles into her pillow, and that’s that.

Nothing else.

I squeeze my eyes shut for being such a goddamn fool, for even wanting more.

She’s fucking engaged, you moron. Best you remember that.