Page 87 of You Make Me Feel
WYATT:
HUDSON:
This discussion isn’t over. We WILL be revisiting shavegate.
ASHER:
Damn right we will.
ZACH
As soon as we walk into my apartment, I switch every light on, put her bag on the couch, and turn to look at her.
God, she’s beautiful. With her hair pulled into a messy bun, her face shining with tears, and her eyes so stunningly green it takes my breath away. She looks like she should be a piece of art on my wall, not standing in the middle of my living room.
“Take a seat,” I say, nodding at the sofa that faces the oversize TV I barely watch. “I’m going to call the kitchen. What do you want to eat?”
Predictably, she shakes her head. “I’m not hungry.” Her voice is soft. It makes my throat tighten. Somebody’s going to fucking pay for making her feel like this.
“I know you’re not hungry,” I reply, my voice equally measured, because I don’t want to scare her right now. I want to take care of her. “But you need to eat. So I’m asking what sounds palatable to you. You name it, they’ll cook it. And then I’ll hover over you until you eat it.”
Her lips curl so slightly you could miss it if you blinked. “I don’t want to be a bother.”
Fuck it. I walk over to her, hunker down in front of her, and take her hands, fixing her eyes with mine. Her lips part at the sudden touch, a breath escaping from them. I look at our joined hands, wondering if she hates this.
“Is this okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She nods and squeezes her fingers around me. Good. Because I don’t want to let go of her.
“Okay, listen to me.” I lift a brow, letting her know I’m not taking any more protests. “You’re here because I want you here. Because we’re friends and friends don’t let each other deal with whatever you’re dealing with alone.”
“Is that what we are?” she asks me. “Friends?”
My thighs are starting to ache, squatting with her hands in mine. I release her momentarily, taking a seat on the sofa next to her. Before either of us can let out a breath, she’s scrambling into my lap.
I’m not sure if I pulled her on top of me or she made the first move. Either way, her thighs press against mine and it takes every ounce of strength I have to stop myself from getting hard. At the feel of her, the smell of her, the way she looks at me like I’m the white knight here to save her.
She presses her face against my shoulder and lets out a long breath. I feel the warmth of it on my neck and I have to grit my teeth. “Food,” I manage to say. “What do you want.”
“Toast.”
I blink. “Toast?”
“And tea. And some boiled eggs.”
This time I laugh softly. “That sounds very British.”
“My mom used to make it for me when I was a kid. She’d soft boil some eggs and cut some toast into littlestrips. She called them soldiers. I’d dip them in the egg, and I swear they tasted better than anything I’ve had since.”
I brush her hair from her face, feeling how soft her skin is. “You’ve never talked about your mom.”
“It’s hard to talk when your hand is mostly covering my mouth,” she says, a ghost of a smile on her face.
I roll my eyes at her. “So tell me now.”
She shifts on my lap so she can look at me, her body brushing mine. “She died when I was twenty-one.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say gently. “It must have been hard to lose her so young.”
