Page 85 of Hot Saltwater Kisses

But it was a start.

3. Kyle

Man.

Ever felt that special kind of agony when your best buddy is a lovesick wuss, and you’re stuck playing Cupid with a hangover? Yeah. Welcome to my fucking Saturday.

Nursing a black coffee as bitter as my exes, I was sprawled on the designer couch of our penthouse. Because why settle for less when Daddy’s trust fund can buy you ocean views? So. Me—a sight for sore eyes. Meanwhile, Logan? Pacing like a caged tiger.

“Sit your ass down,” I snapped, flicking through the channels. Daytime TV was a tragic wasteland. “You look like an anxious chipmunk.”

Infomercials. Seriously, who bought this crap? I was a pro, had the license to prove it, but anyone forking over money for a speaker that doubled as a decorative rock? Beyond my help.

“I’m twice your size,” Logan said, but it lacked heat. He dropped onto the other section of the couch like a puppet with its strings cut. Aww.

“Some of us don’t work out fifteen days a week.” I took a sip of coffee and studied him out of the corner of my eye. If he wasn’t careful, that frown would stick. “So, why the carpet marathon?”

“It’s a wood floor.”

“Not my fucking point.”

He traced a nail along the outer seam of his jeans. “Just… There were, like, four pairs of Milo’s socks in my laundry.”

Socks? Good fuckinggrief, looked like I was bringing my work home. Not that I’d treat Logan with the kid gloves I used with patients.

“Call Hollywood,” I said, dry as diamond dust. “With a hook like that, the horror movie just writes itself.”

He shot me a halfhearted glare. “Very funny.”

“I’m a goddamn riot,” I agreed, stretching out and making myself at home—which I was. Although maybe not much longer, not if this went the way I suspected. “So. Socks.”

“It just made me think he’s been, you know. Staying over. A lot.”

“No wonder given he lives in a rat-infested shithole.”

”It’s not that bad.” Logan’s protest was token.

“Dude.” I infused it with so much patience that I could audition as Gandhi’s love child. “He’s here, what, four nights a week? You’re at his place maybe once a week, and that’s only because you’re an idiot in love who’s willing to look the other way when there’s a cockroach scrambling over his toes.”

“Yeah. Well.” Logan sighed, staring at his hands. Jesus, the drama. Someone get this guy a pearl necklace he could clutch to his bosom.

“Logan.” More patience. For real, I was a fucking saint. “If you wanna buy me out so he can move in, maybeaskbefore you both die of old age.”

That got his attention, head snapping up. “You’d move out?”

“Not a fan of sleeping with earplugs, man. And I prefer my threesomes with more boobs and fewer emotions.”

“So you’d…” He trailed off, clearly processing. For someone with half a brain, he was a bit slow on the uptake sometimes. “You’d find your own place?Alone?”

Look at that—a case of ‘can’t abandon Kyle.’ Cute.

“You know I’m a big boy, right?” I asked. “I can tie my own shoes and everything.”

His lips curved down. “But we’ve shared a place since college. It’d be weird without you.”

Yeah, same. But whatever, I could cry on my expensive silk sheets later. “Maybe I’m ready to fly solo,” I told him. “Walk around naked, leave dishes in the sink, have wild parties with highly questionable guests.”

He slid me a skeptical look. “You do all that anyway.”

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