Page 66 of Just Friends

“No,” I say, not opening my eyes, but a moment later, a spoon is prodding at my lips, the scent of lemon, onion, and Italian seasoning wafting up to my nose.

I crack an eye open, taking a bite. The soup is deliciously warm and flavorful. Alex hands me a slice of crusty bread, and I rip a piece off. Tangy sourdough is a perfect combo, and I tear off another bit and stuff it in my mouth before taking the bowl from Alex.

“I can feed myself,” I tell him, a smile playing at the corners of my mouth.

“You also said you could kayak,” he teases, and the last bit of tension from earlier evaporates.

“You said you can dance,” I retort, dipping my spoon back into the soup for another bite.

He leans back on his hands. “Brittney at Zumba told me I can dance.”

“Brittney at Zumba lied to you.”

He shrugs, his mouth twisting in a grin. “I don’t know why she would do that.”

“Lying to flatter you.”

The usual light returns to his eyes, a twinkle that dimmed the moment my head hit that rock. “You would never do that.”

“I don’t need to,” I say, lifting my pointer finger from my spoon. “I’ve got you wrapped around my finger.”

“That so?”

I raise my shoulder in a shrug. The ease returns to my body now that things are starting to feel normal between us again. “You did leave a date for me today. And it’s not even the first time.”

In the dim light of his flashlight, his expression is soft, almost tender. “Yeah, I guess you do, Lane.”

We’re quiet as I finish my soup, Alex pushing off the bed to straighten my room and then helping me to the bathroom to change out of my kayaking outfit and into pajamas. When I open the door, he’s situated on my bed once more, scrolling through his phone. He pops up at the sound of the door, but I wave him back down, taking the few steps on my own. His eyes track my every movement, his body tense as I settle back under the blankets.

The quiet descends on me like a thick fog. “I wish I could watch TV.”

Alex climbs back out of the bed, moving around to the bookshelf in the corner of my room. “How about I read to you?”

Something in my chest warms, spreading through my veins like the most decadent hot fudge. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

When he spins back around, book in hand, there’s a broad smile on his face.

“What book is it?” I ask, and he climbs back into bed next to me.

He moves the book closer so I can see the cover in the dim light.Emma.

A matching grin curls across my lips. “I actually haven’t read it,” I tell him. “Lo made me buy it at a garage sale last year. She said Wes would kill her if she brought home another copy.”

“Perfect,” he says, flipping open the worn paperback, the pages rustling between his fingers. “Emma Woodhouse,” he starts, his voice rich and smooth. “Handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.”

Thebediscoldwhen I wake up the next morning. My hand slides across smooth sheets, searching, but only meets emptiness. When I crack my eyes open, Alex is gone. The last thing I remember from the night before is the fluttering of my eyelids and his warm, deep voice lulling me to sleep as he readEmma.

My head still swims as I push up out of the bed, but it’s much clearer than yesterday. And by the time my feet sink into the plush rug, I know I’ll be steady enough to walk on my own. Pain slices through my skull as I make my way out of my room, my fingers gently prodding the bandaged lump on the back of my head.

Hazy morning light filters through my curtains, illuminating Alex’s sleeping form on my couch. His body is much too large for the tiny leather couch that I bought when I moved to Tennessee. He’s scrunched up in a way that can’t be comfortable, his neck tilted at an awkward angle.

But that’s not what catches my attention. His shirt is in a pile on the floor next to him, and the chunky throw blanket he has tugged over his hips does nothing to hide the angry sunburn on his back. It’s a deep, fiery red, and I cringe, thinking about how the fabric of my sofa must feel up against it.

Not nearly as bad as it must have felt carrying me as my body jostled against it with every step.

I must make a noise, because Alex stirs, and when he rolls over and stretches, his face twists in a wince. Dark brown eyes meet mine, and he shoots up, instantly alert and assessing my condition.

“I’m fine,” I say as he stands so fast that I hear his joints pop from being curled up for so long.

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