Page 19 of Friends Don't Kiss

“That’s what you wear when your family’s a pain?”

He ignores my perfectly valid point. “You sure this was fake? You’re not keeping something from the rest of us for whatever reason, right?”

“Not everyone’s like you,” I respond under my breath. Chris and his then apprentice Alex were sleeping together way before any of us clued in on that. Or most of us. I’m usually the last one to catch up on these types of developments.

“If you say so,” Chris says.

“Where’s Skye?” I ask to change the topic.

“Asleep upstairs, at Justin’s.” He produces an earpiece that I hadn’t noticed. “We’re testing the baby monitor.”

I chuckle. “Cute. You look like a bodyguard.”

“Wait ’til you have a kid. World doesn’t look so cute anymore.”

I shrug. Although in the past I might have expressed my views on what kind of father I’d be, I don’t see myself becoming a dad. The more I try to date, the less that whole domestic life getup holds appeal.

Declan pockets his notebook, then scratches his head. “I don’t like it,” he declares, looking at all of us. Really, two eggs on a window has our chief of police rattled? This town needs real problems.

“I’m sure you can handle it,” Chloe says with a frown. Justin’s wife owns the restaurant next door to his pub, and last summer some nasty business erupted with her chef that required police intervention.

Declan bares his teeth in a grimace and tilts his head. “Yeah, there’s more,” he says. But instead of filling us in on the more, he makes for the door.

“Seriously, Dec, you’re gonna leave us hanging?” Kiara spits, her fists on her hips. “What more is there?”

“You’ll figure it out soon enough, Nancy Drew,” he says over his shoulder.

six

Kiara

WhenIwakeupthe next morning, the left side of my head is a fogged-out mess, and I can only see the right side of the room.

Shit.

Incoming migraine.

Might not be too late to kill it, though.

I drag myself to the kitchen, take a double dose of painkillers, a tall glass of water, and get some coffee going. Although I feel like crawling back under the covers, I force myself to stretch my arms above my head, then gently turn my neck and massage my temples, although my skin is already a little sensitive.

I’m over what happened with Colton yesterday. Really, I am. In the most rational way. Colton and I didn’t share a moment. I was just…in the moment, I suppose, and his obvious boyfriend skills caught me off guard. My reaction to him was only that—a physical reaction. But my brain and my heart understand what my body doesn’t: that nothing can, or will ever happen romantically with Colton, because that would kill our friendship.

And I value our friendship more than anything.

I weigh the pros and cons of both situations. Girlfriend or good friend? Assuming he was even attracted to me—which he’s not—the answer is obvious. Dating Colton would inevitably lead to a breakup (I have nothing to offer him), while remaining his lifelong friend would be immensely satisfying and enriching on a personal level.

Satisfied with my decision, I tackle the one thing still looming and causing me to tense up. One thing I need to fix about yesterday.

“Really,” Uncle Bill says when I expose our charade. I’m curled on the couch, the phone on speaker so I can sip my coffee and drink my water and massage the back of my neck.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Didn’t look fake to me,” he counters.

Yeah, Colton pulled all the tricks. His arm curled on the back of my chair, his fingers absently twirled my hair. His hand rested on my shoulder, thumb tracing agonizingly slow strokes on my neck. Sometimes he’d lean into me, taking my hand, squeezing it gently, a slight caress. I’ve never had a man do things like that to me before. Tender things, signs of mindless attention. If that’s what it’s like to have a boyfriend, I should work harder at getting one.

Because that wasawesome.

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