Page 6 of Friends Don't Kiss

Shaved: Unfortunately, check.

In a nutshell? I’m already pissed off, but I have no one to blame but myself.

So when my phone dings—or rather, chimes—with the sound I’ve programmed for my friend and neighbor, my mood instantly improves.

Sweetness

Yo

Wassup

Can you jump-start my car?

Now?

What is that supposed to mean?

Now?

Is that a yes?

Jesus, Kiara, use your words.

Glancing out the window, I spot her below, looking up at me with two thumbs up and a big, shit-eating grin from behind her quickly fogging-up windshield.

Of course she’s smiling.

Stifling my own grin, I grab the keys to my truck so I can get my cables, my coat because it’s snowing, and my phone and wallet in case I’m running short on time and need to leave right away.

It’s funny how fast we became friends once she moved into Sunrise Farms, shortly after we met. Proximity helped, for sure, but it’s more than that—there’s just something about Kiara that’s easy to like.

It doesn’t hurt that she’s a pastry chef and uses me as a guinea pig on the regular. And it certainly doesn’t hurt that she likes video games and is only one flight of stairs away from me. Online gaming is fine, but I like the company.

Not that there’s anything between us. She made sure to shut that down real quick, real tight, at the very beginning. We’re just friends. Always will be.

She pops the hood as soon as she sees me step outside, then opens her door and climbs out.

“Your ceiling light is on,” I point out. It’s glaringly obvious in the darkening afternoon—the plague of Northern Vermont winters. Four o’clock, and it’s already dark out.

Kiara’s arms are wrapped around herself, her breath curling in the cold. I can’t help but notice that under her coat, her bare legs are decked out in something sexy bordering on provocative. “Yeah?” she says, shivering.

I snap my gaze back to her face. “Yeah.”

She frowns, then understanding dawns. “Oh.”

Yeah, it’s not the battery.

“Start it.” I lean over the engine, watching as she gets behind the wheel.

Click.

Not even a sputter.

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