Page 67 of Just Friends

It doesn’t stop his progress, though. Each step brings him nearer until my vision is a blur of skin. So much skin. His chest and stomach are tinged pink, but they’re nothing like the bright red of his back.

“Alex,” I say sharply, moving around him and gently skating my fingers across the tender skin covering his shoulder blade. When he shivers beneath my touch, I yank my hand back, scared I hurt him.

His gaze meets mine over his shoulder. “It’s nothing,” he says softly, his voice like a whisper of silk against skin. “Just a sunburn.”

“You should have let me put sunscreen on your back,” I scold.

“Yeah, maybe,” he says, his lips twitching. He turns around to face me, and one of his hands smooths over the bandage on the back of my head.

With his fingers in my hair and the broad expanse of his bare skin right in front of me, I’m suddenly overwhelmed. He must have showered after I fell asleep last night, because although I still smell like the bottom of the river, that fresh linen scent is back on him, like laundry hung out to dry in the sun. It invades my senses, wrapping all around me until I’m transported to a summer day, clothes draped over the line and swaying gently in the breeze.

My breath hitches, and his eyes meet mine. “Did that hurt?” he asks.

When I shake my head, he drops his hand, taking a small step back. Oxygen flows into my lungs like I’ve just broken through the surface after being underwater for too long.

“Your skin will peel,” I blurt, and he quirks a brow. “That sunburn. We should put aloe on it.”

I turn on my heel, heading toward the bathroom, my hand drifting across the wall for balance.

“I don’t need aloe,” he says, but his footsteps echo behind me.

Ignoring him, I walk into the bathroom and find a bottle of the unnaturally green gel under the sink amid my large perfume collection. When I shut the cabinet, Alex is leaning against the doorframe, one hand propped above his head. It really does wonders for his physique, which I don’t think I have ever fully appreciated until this moment.

All those hours in the gym have been good to him, toning every inch of visible skin, carving the muscles beneath into works of art. There are ridges on his abs, and a dark dusting of hair covering broad pectorals. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed how broad his shoulders are, how silky smooth his skin looks.

It takes me a minute to realize he’s holding out his palm, waiting for me to hand him the bottle.

“I’ll do it,” I stammer, motioning for him to turn around.

His gaze locks and holds mine for a long moment, time stretching and expanding in the space of our shared breaths.

“Okay,” he says finally, turning to expose his back to me.

The gel is cold on my fingers, but his skin is hot, burning beneath my touch. As much as I tell it not to, my mind flashes back to yesterday, when his hands were moving over my skin just like this. I hadn’t let myself think about it then, about the way my stomach flipped, about the hot liquid pooling behind my belly button, about how I wanted to make him feel the same way.

Iwantedto touch him like this, to see if I affected him the same way he affected me. From the way his body tenses, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, I think I am.

It’s as terrifying as it is thrilling. Because Alex isnotsomeone like Parker. He’s not someone I’d be okay with losing. I’d give up almost anyone before him. Not Alex. Never Alex.

I pull my hand back, wiping it clean on the mustard yellow towel hanging on the hook beside me.

When Alex turns around, his face is solemn, his jaw tight, a muscle in it flickering. He’s so rarely solemn, but he has been more and more over the last few weeks, like there’s a weight pressing down on his shoulders. I haven’t let myself consider the reasons for the change, too scared to find out what it meant, that investigating might rock the boat and set us off course.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his eyes cataloging every feature on my face, as if he’s committing them to memory. When they fasten on my lips, the pupils dilating, my every nerve springs to attention.

His lips part, words hovering on the tip of his tongue, but he’s interrupted by a knock on my front door, smashing the moment into little pieces.

I jolt to attention, slipping past him into the hall, my shoulder brushing against his bare chest.

Lucy is on the other side of my door, two Whistling Kettle to-go cups in her hands. Her eyes dart past me to Alex, who’s standing shirtless at my back. My chest heats, and a blush streaks across my cheeks as she turns back to me.

“Alex, lovely to see so much of you,” Lucy croons, a grin lighting up her face.

Alex’s response is a grumble as Lucy walks through the door and into the living room.

“I take it you didn’t see my text,” Lucy asks, setting the paper cups down on the coffee table.

I glance at Alex as I say, “Alex locked up my phone the minute we got home yesterday.”

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