Page 125 of Branded
Probably able to see how much her mentioning babies hurt me.
Because Beth was smart—pretty and funny and loud and high maintenance and fucking smart.
That made her dangerous, and her next words proved it.
“Sorry,” she whispered, her hand lifting, resting on mine. “I didn’t think. That was really…” She nibbled on her red-painted lip, but her eyes held mine. “Inconsiderate,” she finished, pulling back, forcing me to drop my hand. Which was a good thing.
The smart and safe thing.
Her gaze hit on the money on the bar, and her teeth nibbled that red-painted lip again, eyes filling with something I didn’t want to examine too closely. “I should let you go. I’ll wait for a table?—”
“What do you want to eat?” I asked gruffly. “Besides the mozzarella sticks,” I added when she lifted her brows, probably to tell me that she wanted fried cheese and she wanted it right then. “Something with at least a bit of nutritional value.”
“Umm…” Her nose wrinkled. “Nachos?”
A curl of amusement in my chest.
And hell, it had been so long since I’d felt that emotion that it took me a minute to recognize what it was.
I rubbed the ache there, smothered a smile.
God. When was the last time I’d smiled?
“They have vegetables on them,” she added a bit mulishly. Probably because I hadn’t responded, given that it had taken me a long fucking time to recognize the emotion of amusement, that I was still recovering from the onslaught of feeling like myself for a moment.
“Salsa’s not a vegetable,” I said once I’d gotten it together.
Her blue eyes narrowed, her long red hair twitched when she spun slightly to face me. “Peppers are. Olives are. And guacamole is just a mushed up one.”
“Olives are technically fruit.”
Those eyes narrowed further.
“Same goes for peppers.”
A deeper glare.
“And avocados, too.”
She tossed up her hands.
And that amusement in me grew.
But I didn’t do anything about it, just bit back my grin and waved down the bartender, put in an order for a club soda, nachos, mozzarella sticks, and a side of fruit.
When the bartender went to plug that into the register, I turned back to Beth.
Who was staring at me with wide eyes. “You know what I drink?”
I knew a lot about her—too much considering I’d spent the better part of a year building my shield against her. I knew what she drank. I knew that she was a good friend, that her ass was incredible and frequently featured in tight skirts. I knew that she ate too much junk food and that if I’d ordered a salad, she wouldn’t touch it, but that she would deign to eat the fruit in the name of something healthy.
But I couldn’t reveal any of that, could I?
So, I just said, “I’ve hung out with you, Hazel, Pru, and company enough. I know what you all drink.”
That dropped her brows, though a thoughtful expression took the place of her surprise. “Right,” she whispered.
We sat in silence—or rather, I sat in silence—as we waited for her food to come. She prattled on about some TV show the girls were trying to get the guys to watch (but had so far been unsuccessful) and when I didn’t bite, she moved on to discussing the team. That was a more interesting conversation—hockey was easy. Hockey made sense. But I couldn’t bring myself to do more than sit silently next to her.
