Okay, whoa. The more I let myself fall down this rabbit hole, the more maddening the pulsing heat between my heart and my core grows. My fingers run absently over my slick, tender skin.
Would it be incredibly sinful to masturbate in the shower with Hayes less than ten feet away from me, separated only by a thin door?
I push the thought away, dipping my face under the sudden blast of cold water coming from the showerhead and reaching for the knob. There’s always a brutal rush of cold water right at the end. I usually get out of the tub before turning off the stream, but this morning, I need the wake-up call, and to cool down my now overheated body.
With Hayes waiting, I finish getting ready in a flash. I pull on a T-shirt and a pair of leggings from the drawer, once again mentally kicking myself for skipping laundry day this week. Work has been somewhat stressful. I look at the row of polo shirts hanging in my closet, each with the embroidered Riverside logo, and a lump forms in my throat. Whenever I think about what’s happening to Riverside, Chicago’s oldest retirement home on the north side, all I want to do is curl up in bed under ten blankets, watch my favorite movies, and cry.
I don’t have time for this.
Precious moments wasted, I scramble to make myself look presentable. After a dozen swipes of mascara, a few corrective lines to my eyebrows, and a vigorous finger-combing of my tangled hair—now I’m ready to go. I reach for the doorknob, already preparing my apology to the patiently waiting Hayes.
And I stop short. Deodorant!
I swipe the stick under my arms aggressively, shaking my head at my own reflection. Twenty-five years old, and I still don’t have my morning routine down pat. Hayes’s presence this morning has turned me into a frazzled mess. I really wish Wolfie wouldn’t intervene so much in my life.
When I emerge from the bathroom, less than twenty minutes after I bolted inside, Hayes is still on the couch. But instead of looking at me with those big, warm eyes, he’s dozed off, his long lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones.
I tiptoe toward him, debating between each step which kind of little sister I’m going to be. Sweet and loving? Or an annoying pest? A thought as clear as Chicago’s summer sky warms me with both excitement and shame.
I don’t want to be Hayes’s little sister.
Gently, I brush his jawline with the back of my fingers. “Hey, sleepyhead.”
His eyes shoot open, blazing. His hand rockets up to mine in a shocking grasp, squeezing.
“Don’t do that.” His eyes burn with something intense, his pupils smoldering like honey dipped in molten lava.
“Sorry,” I whisper, my eyebrows furrowed in confusion at his reaction.
His gaze travels slowly down my body, like he’s taking his time before settling on my face once again. His expression is bored, disinterested, as he says, “You know better than to wake a hungry man.”
And then his expression changes. There’s that infuriating smirk, stretching soft smile lines from his plump lips and his impossible-to-read eyes.
It’s my turn to blink. I can’t look at him for too long before I run the risk of doing something incredibly stupid like kissing him.
“Being hangry is no excuse for being mean.” I pout my lower lip, flexing my hand as if it’s been injured.
No, he didn’t hurt me. But that doesn’t mean I won’t let him think he did. I look down to the floor, and back up at him through my mascara. I’m an expert eyelash batter. It’s the first thing you learn when your brother has hot friends.
But Hayes is immune to me. He’s already standing, fishing in his pockets for his wallet and keys. Eliciting a response from this emotional seesaw of a man only ever gets me knocked on my butt. And my ego has been bruised enough by him over the years.
“Ready?” he asks.
I give him a weak smile. “Yep.”
“After you, dove.” Hayes flashes me a grin, and we head out together.
My brain is a traitorous bitch. Things I shouldn’t let myself imagine pop into my head without my permission, and usually at the worst moment imaginable.
When he opens the door for me to the corner diner, I find myself visualizing his big body moving on top of mine. When he takes his first precious sip of steaming coffee, I feel his hot mouth pressed to my throat. When he reads his favorite menu items to me from the laminated tri-fold menu, I hear the dirty words falling from his lush lips as his fingers work between my thighs. All that sleek, male muscle claiming me, owning me, using me . . .
“Maren?”
I realize with a jolt that Hayes is waiting for me to respond to something he just said.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?” My gaze meets his, and whoa, Hayes looks ticked off. If I didn’t know him so well, I’d be seriously concerned.
“Savory or sweet?”
Sweet. Always sweet.
“Sweet, I guess.” I shrug, dropping another sugar cube into my coffee.
The tension etched in his clenched jaw relaxes as his expression eases into a smirk. How he goes from zero to sixty, and back again to zero, will always remain a mystery to me.
“You haven’t changed a bit since you were eight, have you?” He sighs, leaning across the table. Even just a few inches of space eliminated between us feels like the weather in this dingy little diner has shifted. Tropically.
With flaming cheeks, I roll my eyes. “Whatever, Hayes.”
I both love and hate when he brings up our history. Love, because it makes me so happy that we know each other’s personalities probably better than anyone else ever could. Hate, because I’m selfish. I want the chance to make a new first impression. Too often, I wonder if I’d turn his head while walking down the street, if he didn’t already see me as his best friend’s little sister.
What would our first date look like?
“Just because you’re hangry doesn’t mean you get to be mean,” he says with mock offense.
Taking in his wide eyes, downturned lips, and hand placed over his heart, I can’t help but laugh. I quickly lift my coffee mug to my mouth to hide my rogue lips from smiling.
“Very funny,” I whisper, rolling my eyes for the umpteenth time today. We’ve been together for what, an hour? I don’t think either of us have gotten a word in edgewise without teasing.
If he really liked me, he wouldn’t make fun of me so much.
That’s in direct contradiction with one of my dad’s favorite “no boys allowed” lectures. When boys tease you, that means they like you, Maren. But I shut his voice out of my head with a scalding sip of coffee. That’s only my subconscious, trying to salvage a crush that’s two decades stale. No, Dad. When a boy teases you, he’s just teasing you.
When a server appears, we place our orders. I ask for my usual French toast with a side of fruit, and Hayes settles for scrambled egg whites with spinach. We’re creatures of habit, so when Hayes asks for a side of pancakes, my eyebrows shoot up in disbelief.
“I’ve had a rough morning, okay? First, I practically got thrown out of a window. Then I discover that you’re deathly ill.” When I scoff, he levels me with a pleading glare. “I deserve this. Okay?”
His tone is stern, begging me to disagree with him. Not that I would. Eating a carb once in a while won’t kill him, despite what he might think.