I sit across from him, blinking stupidly, as he stands and takes his dishes to the counter.
With the ease of a guy who’s been here many times before, he rinses his plate and loads it in the dishwasher, one of the few menial tasks he actually does.
I stare at the place he vacated.
What is going on with him tonight? Because he’s acting different.
So much more different.
Dare I think… flirty?
“Oh come on!” Next to me, Klaus shouts at the television where we’re watching Charlotte’s MLS team going head to head with Minnesota. It’s Charlotte’s inaugural season and as lifelong soccer lovers—we’re all in cheering for the home team.
Charlotte’s losing, but that isn’t why I’m practically moping in the corner of my couch, sipping my third glass of wine of the evening.
After the initial sure I’ll pretend to be your fake boyfriend for a weekend to stick it to your ex conversation, Klaus went right back to normal, complimenting my cooking and helping me clean up. We talked about where I’m traveling to for more promotional signings for players my company represents, and we tried to figure out if we can schedule any long runs together. That becomes more difficult once he starts traveling during the season.
We only have a few more chances, one being the weekend of the wedding. And I haven’t yet brought up our sleeping arrangements.
This shouldn’t be that hard. In the years where we became almost instant best friends, we’ve passed out on each other’s couches—thank you wine and vodka—or guest bedrooms. Yet… this one… it’s the clincher.
Possibly.
Maybe not.
And kind of… hopefully not?
As I’m thinking all of this, sipping my wine, Klaus spears me with a look. Does he have to look so damn good all of the time? It’s madness!
His face should be outlawed, from the square jaw and harsh cheekbones, and sexy, curled hair that isn’t too long and sheered on the sides, the man is practically edible. Like strawberries dipped in dark chocolate.
He calls his hair cut a fade cut. I call it a let me run my fingers through your hair and shove my mouth to yours kind of cut.
Not out loud. I’m not completely inept.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re thinking and what’s worrying you or are you going to sit there, curled in a ball, glaring at the game all night?”
“I’m not glaring at the game.” I leave out the mention of being curled in a ball. I’m totally curled in a ball, feet to my ass on the cushion, knees up, one arm wrapped around my shins. Also, even though Charlotte is a new team, they have loads of talent which means they shouldn’t be losing by two. An excellent reason to glare, thankyouverymuch.
“Uh-huh. Have I mentioned lately that I’m also the Pope?”
I snort, and the wine I just sipped burns my nose. “Damn it.”
I set my glass down on the side table and pinch the bridge of my nose. Damn it. This hurts.
The humiliation of the entire night. My neediness in even needing a fake boyfriend. Let’s not delve into the fact that my ex-fiancé is marrying my oldest and now most hated friend, for crying out loud.
If there was a wanted poster for most humiliated human, that spotlight would be shining right on me.
“Hey.”
Two warm hands press against my knees and I drop my head. God. Seriously. I’m going to have a mental breakdown in front of Klaus. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to burrow my forehead into my knee caps because Klaus’s hand moves to my cheek, his thumb beneath my chin and with a warm pressure that slides down my throat straight to my nipples, he lifts my head.
Not that I fight it much. His hands are divine. Gifts from God. Both on the ice, and I imagine—oh yeah, I’ve imagined—off the ice as well.
“You are totally freaking out tonight.”
“Am not,” says the twenty-seven-year-old who still acts like she’s four.
“Are too,” says the twenty-eight-year-old who can match me in any argument.
“Klaus.”
“Jilly-Bean.”
It’s the name that does it. The stupid, ridiculous, and immature nickname makes me crack a grin.
This will be fine.
It’s a weekend, and it’s Klaus. He knows me almost as well as Becca does.
What can go so horribly wrong?
“What are you freaking out about? Tell me, or I’ll be forced to bring in the big guns.”
To prove his threat, his hand spreads, and damn… they’re big hands. Thick fingers. Long also. Can we judge a man on the size of his hands? Or is that just his shoe size? Because I’m judging… and hoping.
“Don’t.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Swear to God, you touch my knee and I’ll kick you in the balls.”
“Then you’ll have to kiss them and make them better.”
He says it with a smile, a wicked one, one I’ve never seen on his let’s be friends and friends only face before.
I gasp at the heat in his cornflower blues. Stormy. They’ve darkened.
Mine have as well because I can practically feel his breath skate across my skin as his hand lowers to my knee.
“Don’t—”
“Tell me—”
He touches my knee. Pressure begins to squeeze just above it.
It’s my worst nightmare come to life. Times two.
So it’s no surprise to me when I blurt out, “If you come to the wedding with me you have to stay at my parents’ house, because they won’t let me get a hotel room and since we’re in love and dating, they won’t let you have a guest room which means you’ll have to sleep with me, as in, sleep in the same bed kind of sleep with me.”
I inhale a deep breath and press my lips together.
And kill me.
Kill. Me. Now.
“What?” he asks, and that storm in his eyes has muted. “You might have to repeat that.”
“I don’t think I want to.” Curling my hand around his, I try to remove it from the tender spot above my knee. My skin feels like it’s burning. My thigh from Klaus’s touch. My face from my humiliation. “I think you heard me just fine.”
“Maybe.” His hand at my knee tightens.
With a firm yank, he shifts and pulls my leg more. I squeal, kicking my leg up at him but Klaus has leaned off the couch, out of my reach, until I’m splayed on the couch.
He falls on top of me, one knee shoved between my legs and the back of the couch and his other at my side, foot braced to the floor. He’s hovering over me, and that storm brewing in his eyes?
It magnifies.
“Klaus—”
My question stalls in my throat. His hand at my knee loosens, and he brushes my knee and then the outside of my thigh as his gaze stays frozen to mine.
It’s possible I’ve entered an alternate dimension—one where Klaus looks at me like he wants to kiss me.
“Do you snore?”
“What?”
His dark, tan lips kick up at a corner. “Do you snore?”
“No.” I scoff. “Of course not.”
“Talk in your sleep? Have night terrors where I’ll have to worry about my balls getting kicked?”
“No!” Is he crazy? What is he even talking about?