Page 72 of The Girlfriend Zone

He shoots me a more serious look as he pulls over outside my building. Spanish music filters out from a nearby corner store. “And yeah, I was determined,” he says. “Because when I asked if you needed a ride, you said you’d be okay.”

I flash back to last night and the words I’d brushed off. “That’s true.”

“But you didn’t say that you didn’t need one,” he says with a knowing grin.

“Another technicality,” I tease.

“I’m excellent at loopholes.” His voice is low and raspy, and the sound weaves through me. But it’s those darkbrown eyes that catch my attention most—they’re deep and soulful, and he looks at me like this—here—is the only place he wants to be.

Well, besides that portal.

And maybe I like his persistence because it’s familiar. I understand it. It’s what drives me too. Showing up the way he did seems to say that he understands me—that I won’t always ask for help, but I might actually—gasp—enjoy it. And perhaps need it too.

“Plus, it’s what a friend would do,” he adds.

“And we’re friends.”

“We are,” he says.

I toss him back a smile. “Then, let’s put those muscles to use carrying my suitcases.”

“With so much pleasure,” he says with a wink that makes my damn stomach flutter.

Again.

24

SUSTAINABLE PLEASURE

Leighton

Great. Just great. My once-again roomies have commandeered the living room for a public therapy session.

Indigo stands with her hands clasped to her chest, her long braid trailing down her back. “I am feeling frustrated,” she says in a calm, measured tone, “because I reminded you this morning to move the bamboo out of Leighton’s room. It upsets me that you didn’t do it.”

Ezra hangs his head low, his man bun drooping in solidarity. Even his beard looks defeated.

“It’s okay. We can move the bamboo,” I offer, trying to sidestep the roomie drama on night one. I really just want the bamboo out of my room. Miles is in there, setting down grocery bags.

Indigo lifts a hand in a regalstopgesture. “Thank you, Leighton. But Ezra needs to honor my feelings about this.”

My head spins. Too much honoring happening.

Ezra pushes his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose—they’re for show; I know he doesn’t need them. He looks up at Indigo, and I expect him to cave. Instead, he says, “I should have moved them, Indigo. But I was frustrated about the kombucha top left on the counter. I felt defiant and acted out.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. I do not need this confessional nonsense.

Apparently, neither does Miles. He strides out of my room, hauling the bamboo like a lumberjack with a stack of wood, his jaw set in that calm, no-nonsense way. “Where do you want this—couch, floor, or table?”

Indigo startles. “Um…”

“The table, man,” Ezra says, brightening. “Sweet! That would have taken me half an hour.”

“Because you get distracted by your folk music station every time you do chores,” Indigo snaps.

“Oh, now you’re mocking my music? Pretty sure you were the one who asked me to blast it the other night in bed.”

And the gloves are off.

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