Page 10 of Crushing On My Brothers BFF

“I’m used to it,” I say. “I’ve done my best not to become arealcelebrity, but there’s only so much I can do. I can’t stop magazines from putting me on their stupid lists.”

She glances at me, looking so angelic with the sunlight glistening in the background. If I could take a photo now, I’d treasure it forever. It’s the shy smile on her face. It’s the redness in her cheeks. It’s the light in her eyes. All of it fires me up more than I can believe.

“Somemen might be flattered.”

“Not me,” I tell her.

I don’t want her thinking I care about the social climbers and the flatterers or any of it. I want her to know that there’s only one woman for me, and that’s her. Iwanther to know all that, but I can never say any of it. Even thinking it is a betrayal.

“I’m glad I did it,” she says after a pause. “I’ll never forget the look on her face. She wassooutraged that she didn’t get what she wanted. Entitled freak.”

I chuckle again. “Since when did you become such a firecracker?”

Fuck, is that flirting? It’s been so long since I’ve tried flirting that I’m not sure. It feels natural to speak like this with her. It feels like what weshoulddo to build our connection and eventually sink into each other with fierce passion. So we can own each other, and I can claim that thick, beautiful body and everything else—her soul, most of all. Am I going nuts?

“Maybe I always was one,” she murmurs, watching the road now instead of me. “You just never noticed.”

“I don’t remember you stealing any phones when you were a kid,” I tell her.

“Yeah, well…” She folds her arms, almost making me crash the car from the way her breasts shift together in her hoodie. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

Hell, I can see that, I almost say. Then I could reach across the car, put my hand on her leg, and squeeze to feel how thick she is so she can feel my passion and my need. I focus on the road, ignoring the pounding in my chest, the flood of hunger in my stiff length.

“How’s college?” I ask after several minutes of quiet driving.

“It’s going okay,” she replies. “I’m working on a video about my parents, using old videos from when I was a kid. It’s depressing but emotional. Maybe… healing? I know that sounds pretentious.”

“It doesn’t,” I tell her fiercely. “I know how hard all of that was. If it helps you healanddo well in college, that’s a win-win.”

She looks at me with that captivating, nervous smile. “It’s refreshing not to have to explain about Mom and Dad. You were there. You saw it all. I don’t have to explain anything to you, do I?”

“No,” I say. Ilie. There are a couple of things she might be able to explain. Like how she can turn from invisible to the only thing I’m capable of looking at and how she can make me forget everything else so easily when I’ve been failing at that for years.

“Do you want something to drink? To eat?” she asks, leading me into their airy, open-plan kitchen/dining room. The double doors open right onto the beach, the sound of the sea never far off. When she sees me looking, she says, “A little different from East Coast living?”

“I miss the sea,” I say.

“They don’t have the sea on the East Coast? That’s news to me,” she says with a smirk. Every smile from her feels like a gift. “I’m going to have that coffee, finally.”

“I’ll stomach another one,” I tell her. “You know what I mean about the sea. It’s not the same. Nothing on the East Coast is.”

“But the business comes first,” she says, walking around the counter.

I lean against the wall, watching her, reminding myself to only look at certain parts of her. Her face. Her eyes. Not the rest. Not that tempting, perfect body. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No, actually, I think it’s admirable. Paul is a good man. He sacrificed a lot for me. We both know that. The way he lives now… I think it’s making up for that lost time, but you put the company first, your employees. There’s a lot to be said for that.” She pauses, then quickly adds, “I’m not saying Paul is selfish.”

“I know,” I reassure her.

“Seriously, I wouldn’t do that,” she says. “Especially not now.”

“I know,” I tell her in a firmer voice. “You don’t have to convince me. You’re a good sister and a good person.”

It’s like I correct myself at the end. It’s not that she isn’t a good sister, of course. It’s more like something in me—some real low, bitter instinct—needs to categorize her as something else. Thinking of her as I have my entire life, as my friend’s kid sister, will mess my head up.

“Thanks,” she says, back to her cold tone again. “Feel free to take a seat if you want.”

She saysif you want,but it sounds likeshewants me to move out of the way. She’s got a wild look in her eyes as if she’s holding back the urge to snap at me. Maybe I’ve annoyed her in some way without realizing it. It’s not like I’ve got much practice flirting, not that weareflirting.

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