Page 82 of The Best Friend Power Play

She thinks about it, then gives a definitive head nod. "I will."

It's been two weeks since our trip to the pool, where she conquered her fear and swam in the ocean.

Which means it's been two weeks since I saw her in the most sexy how is that even legal? bikini I've ever seen. That life drawing class I suffered through came in handy because Caveman Culver committed every detail, every cut out, every glimpse of skin that bikini afforded me to memory while Gentleman Culver remained committed to ensuring Hannah felt safe in the water.

And it's also been two weeks since she told me she was a virgin, and I, uh, offered myself as tribute.

We haven't spoken about it since then, which is fine. I meant what I said—that there is no pressure, and she can take all the time she needs. It's not something to rush into. I'll respect whatever she decides.

And if nothing comes of it, that's fine, too.

Well, maybe not fine, but Gentleman Culver will deal with it the way a gentleman would—by respecting her decision. Caveman Culver will take it out on the weights rack at the gym.

Our friendship is changing. There's no denying that. Even though we don't have to convince anyone that we're married, we are very much acting like a married couple. Possibly a middle-aged, very domesticated couple…but you know what? I'll take it in a heartbeat.

I wasn't lying or exaggerating when I told Hannah I was bad at dating.

I am.

On the ice, I can stare down an opposing team player barreling toward me at full speed, no problem.

But in real life, a date is a pressure-cooker situation for me. I find it hard enough to open up to someone on a deeper level as it is, but over dinner at a fancy restaurant? Forget it. The real me clams up and I go into fun, boisterous mode, which yeah, might be good for a little while, but it never allows for anyone to get close to me because I'm not showing them who I really am.

I'm just not cut out for romance and grand gestures.

But cooking a meal for Hannah and watching her enjoy it.

Or sitting outside on a nice day and talking about life, the kids, the latest annoying thing Doyle has done to irritate someone.

Or rubbing her feet on the couch.

Or holding her in my arms, getting lost in a world of coconutty kisses.

Man, I could do all those things forever.

I glance over at her walking next to me. She's pinned her name badge onto her well-fitted turquoise polo shirt, and I notice I'm not the only one lost in their thoughts, so I stop walking and ask, "What are you thinking?"

"Uh…" Her eyes dart about.

"What? You can tell me."

She brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I was actually thinking about Trevor."

"Oh." I need a moment to shift gears from my own thoughts to the sudden topic of my twin. I gesture toward a couple of chairs, and we go over and sit down. "What about him?"

"I was trying to recall what memories I have of him."

"You were nine when he died," I say gently. "You may not have that many. And that's okay."

"I don't have many," she says sadly. "But I do have one. I remember it because it was a rainy summer afternoon—a rare thing around here. Your family was over for a cookout but because of the rain, everyone was crammed inside. Well, not everyone. Trevor grabbed me and we ducked out, just running and splashing about in the rain."

I smile. "That's such a Trevor thing to do."

"We didn't go too far from the house, but we came across a tiny kitten stuck in a small ditch that was rapidly filling with water. Without hesitation, Trevor waded through the mud and rescued the frightened animal."

Warmth fills me because again, that's such a Trevor thing to do.

She brushes her thumb over the top of my palm. "Chester reminds you of Trevor, doesn't he?"

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