Page 27 of Love Around the Corner
“Okay. I won’t say it again. But aim there when the thing that’s not going to happen happens.”
Then, out of nowhere, his hand landed on her knee. “Thanks, Livie. You really are the nicest person I know.”
She stared at his hand, unable to look up at his face. Her whole body felt electrified, every inch of her focused on that place where he touched her, the weight of his hand, the heat of his palm. Shocking images flooded her brain, all the other ways she was imagining him touching her. All from one hand on her knee.
She was frozen, not breathing, not even blinking. Nick turned his head on the pillow, his eyes still closed. “You’re a really good friend,” he said, and then his face went slack with unconsciousness and his hand slid off her leg.
Friend. You’re just his friend. Don’t forget it.
And while her head knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt, her traitorous body didn’t want to believe it.
She stood, pausing a moment to gaze down at him. His face was in profile, turned into the pillow, his thick dark lashes making shadows in the dim light. His hair—that divinely silky hair—was a riotous mess against the white of the pillow. Her fingers itched to smooth it, to brush it off his forehead, but she didn’t make a move to touch him.
Friends.That’s all they were. And she was happy he considered her a friend, truly. The feelings she had for him—she absolutely could not indulge in them. He might not be engaged anymore, but that didn’t make him any safer for her. He was unpredictable, flawed, and damaged in ways she didn’t even fully understand. He had Danger: Do Not Enter practically stamped across his forehead. He was the kind of walking dating disaster she’d heard Gemma and Kendra complain about for years.
That was why, she decided as she fetched him a glass of water and a couple of aspirin from the kitchen, she was going to keep him as a friend, where he belonged. She’d forget the way he turned her thoughts inside out and the way his hand on her knee had set her whole body on fire. She set the water and aspirin on the end table near his head, then watched his chest rise and fall slowly as he slept.
Yes, they were friends. And friends was exactly what they needed to stay.
Chapter Eleven
Consciousness crept back in slowly. The first thing Nick became aware of was the lumpy sofa underneath him. The second thing he became aware of was a warm weight pressing down solidly on his chest. He opened his eyes and found a pair of large, sorrowful brown ones staring back at him.
A dog. There was a dog here. He didn’t have a dog.
The dog’s head was lying on Nick’s chest as it gazed up at him with its solemn, watery eyes.
He swallowed and instantly regretted it. His mouth tasted sour and felt mossy. Very shortly, he realized the rest of his body wasn’t in any better shape. Hung over. Badly. Maybe still drunk.
And he had no idea where the fuck he was.
His eyes drifted upward. The white ceiling, under its cracking paint, had that fancy molding that reminded him of his aunt Gloria’s house. But that was the only thing that looked familiar. Aside from the lumpy brown couch he’d apparently slept on, there were a couple of drooping armchairs, a coffee table half buried under open mail and magazines, and a large flat-screen against a wall. Someone had tucked a quilt, soft with age, around his body. And the dog was making sure it stayed there.
He glanced around the room for clues. On the far wall, there was a framed family photo of three girls, two teens and an older girl. He recognized one of the teens, because she didn’t look all that different now, with her big, serious eyes and her long, dark hair.
Livie. Right. Livie’s family’s bar. Vodka.Somuch vodka. It was hazy after that, but there were flashes. Livie offering to let him crash at her place. Staggering down the street. Sinking back on the couch.
He was in Livie’s house. Because Poppy had broken up with him.
Poppy.
That all came back in a rush, too. Poppy’s flat, emotionless eyes as she told him to leave.
Last night’s vodka made a brief attempt at a reappearance, but he fought it back.
He heard a hum of female voices in another room. Livie and her sisters. Right, she had two sisters, who’d probably come home and wondered who the hell that stranger was passed out on their couch. How fucking embarrassing. And he must look like shit.
Shifting the dog’s weight off his chest, he silently got to his feet. There was a half bath tucked under the stairwell in the entryway, so he was able to splash some water on his face, and rinse out the worst of the cotton-mouth before he had to face the music. Following the voices, and the smell of something cooking—which his stomach was alternately utterly rejecting and begging for—he passed through the living room and dining room. The dog, who had followed him to the bathroom, was still trailing after him as he made his way to the kitchen at the back of the house.
Livie was sitting with one sister at the kitchen table while the other—a tall woman he vaguely remembered meeting at the bar—stood at the stove cooking something. Had she forced him to eat last night? He kind of remembered that.
The dog, who collapsed heavily against his feet, gave a softwuff, as if to announce his arrival. All three women turned to look at him.
“He lives,” the tall one said, hiking one eyebrow and looking him up and down in a way that spoke volumes without a word. That woman didn’t trust him. Hell, he’d spent the night on her couch in a drunken stupor. He didn’t blame her.
Self-consciously, he dragged a hand through his wrecked hair. “Uh, yeah. I was in rough shape last night. Thanks for letting me crash, Livie.”
She shrugged and looked away, bashful. “No problem.”
