Page 28 of Forbidden Puck
I blew out a breath. “Nevermind. I'm just a little annoyed. But whatever. You obviously like her, so you should go be with her, I guess. I'll find a way to entertain myself.”
My oaf brother wrapped his troll arms around me and squeezed. I gave him a half-hearted squeeze back.
“Thanks for understanding,” he said.
“Yep.”
And with that, Lance grabbed his things and rushed out the door.
Welp. This just figures.
I sighed, poured myself a glass of wine, and threw myself on the new, gargantuan leather couch fit for the Nephilim. I pulled out my phone and did what I'd do any other night—read work emails and checked out the latest on industry-related blogs and forums. My other hand, operating on pure muscle memory, instinctively went to stroke the cat that would normally be sitting in my lap.
“Aw, man,” I groaned. “I miss Eucalyptus.”
This was just like a typical weekend night at my place. Except this was somehow more pathetic. I'd flown out to Boston to escape my sad life, … only to be reminded of exactly how lonely I was in the end.
“Welp.”
I took a long gulp from my wine.
And then I heard a sound down the hallway: a bedroom door opening. Then the crisp, satisfying clap of leather soleson hardwood floor.
Radar? He's still here?
I sat up in a hurry and tried to shake the lonely desperation from my aura.
***
Radar passed through the living room with purpose—that is, until he saw me. He stopped in his tracks, and the look he gave me said it all. He twisted and pointed a finger down the hallway, towards Lance's bedroom—a dumb-founded gesture that seemed to ask, 'but, your brother …?'
I shook my head. “Lance left.”
“I thought you guys were going out tonight?”
“We were. But Lance had a last minute change of plans.”
He gave a sympathetic frown.
“It's okay though,” I said unconvincingly. “I don't mind.” I must've been a sorry sight, looking all sad and frumpy on the couch.
Radar, on the other hand, was dressed to impress in an expensive slate-gray suit and a smart white-and-blue checked shirt. The top two buttons of his dress shirt were left undone, showing off his large and protruding collarbones and the tops of his round, muscular pecs.
But the fit of every item he wore was impeccable. The jacket accentuated his tall, broad-shouldered frame, and the pants hinted at his impressively-built leg muscles. My eyes momentarily wandered over the satisfying lines, mounds and bulges that swelled inallthe right places.
Radar can dress himself, alright.
He stood straight as a board, not moving from that spot, just observing me in all my pity. My cheeks began to grow warm—was it from the wine, or the embarrassment and shame? Who knew. All I knew was that Radar stood there, feeling sorry for me, and I wanted to shout—just go away already! Leave me!
I took a self-conscious sip of wine. “You don't have to feel sorry for me, you know.”
“Who said I feel sorry for you?”
“It's obvious you do. You're standing there, looking at me like I'm this pathetic puppy. I can fend for myself. Spending the night by myself isn't the worst thing ever.”
And it's not like it's anything new to me.
“Did Lance say where he was going?”
