Page 15 of The Fangirl and the Crooner

Grabbing two bottles of water from the fridge, I follow her to the table. She slides into a chair after setting my plate in front of the one next to it. I briefly consider moving it to the seat across from her, and she must sense it, because she clears her throat and motions toward the seat she picked for me.

“I thought this would be easier to share the chips.”

“Of course,” I say, sliding into the chair.

I put the sandwiches on small plates, leaving no room for anything else, so obviously, we’ll have to eat the chips straight from the bag. And why am I overthinking this?

Just fucking eat and relax, man.

She picks up her sandwich and takes a big bite, thebacon crunching noisily as she chews, making her cheeks blush. I just watch her for a moment, remembering when we first met. She was a blusher, her cheeks turning pink every time I spoke to her. Hell, every time Ilookedat her. It always made me feel warm all over.

She had this magnetic personality that drew me to her, and even though we’ve always kept things strictly friend-zoned, I’ve never been immune to her charms. She’s a beautiful woman, inside and out. I’ve often wondered what her lips would feel like against mine. What she’d taste like. How she’d feel beneath me––

Stop. She made it pretty clear from the beginning she only wants to be friends. Flirty friends, butfriends,nonetheless. And now? Now we’re barely even that.

But I have faith we can get back to where we were before everything went to hell. Pressley has made it pretty obvious she regrets what she did, even if she was sure she was helping me. Eventually, we’ll find our way past it, completely.

We have to.

She’s staying in Evening Shade, for good. Once Willow’s apartment is repaired, she’ll move in there. We’re connected by our friends, and we’ll be constants in each other’s lives. So, if I don’t want to make things uncomfortable for everyone I care about, I need to move past these lingering feelings of betrayal and mistrust.

We chat a little while we eat, and by the time we finish our sandwiches, I’m feeling more confident in our ability to coexist in this house without a lot of strained awkwardness. We’re falling back into old patterns, andshe even teased me over a dab of mayo I smeared across my chin.

“Do you want a cup of coffee?” I ask her after she insists on loading the dishwasher.

“I’d love one,” she says, then meets my eyes. “Thanks.”

I nod, then grab a mug from the cabinet and slide it beneath the single-cup coffee maker. Adding a pod and setting it to brew, I turn toward the fridge and pull out the bottle of chocolate creamer I bought when I went grocery shopping yesterday. I can’t stand the stuff, but I know Pressley likes it, so I threw a jug in the cart.

I close the refrigerator and turn to set it on the counter. I freeze when I see Pressley standing stone still, her eyes locked on the bottle in my hand. I watch her eyes widen before they dart up to meet mine.

“You have chocolate creamer in your house? I thought you were a black-bean-water kind of guy,” she says, but the emotion in her eyes belies the teasing lilt she tries to add to the words.

“Well, I know you like it, so I bought some for you.”

“Thanks, Bram,” she breathes, the words so quiet, I almost miss them.

“You’re welcome, Pressley,” I whisper back.

The moment feels charged, an invisible current of electricity zipping back and forth between us as we remain rooted to our spots, staring at each other. Then Pressley shakes herself, and the moment is broken. Huffing out a quiet laugh, she moves in my direction, then swerves to the left to pull her mug from the coffee maker. I watch as she opens the seal on the creamerbefore replacing the lid, then pours a splash in to the steaming brew, a soft smile on her lips the entire time.

My gaze slides back down to that bare strip of skin beneath her cropped hoodie, and my tongue darts out to wet my suddenly dry lips. I clench my hand into a fist, fighting the urge to reach out and touch her waist to see if the skin there is as soft as it looks.

Jesus. What is wrong with me? One minute, I’m sure we’ll never make things right again. The next, I’m sure we’ll get past it all and be friends.Onlyfriends.

And a few beats later, I’m imagining what she tastes like and how her skin would feel beneath my fingertips?

I turn away, taking a deep breath before murmuring, “See you later.”

I head straight for my bedroom, closing myself inside and leaning back against the door. Digging the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, I rub them roughly before pushing myself upright and striding into my bathroom.

I need to take a shower and get ready for my shift at the tavern. And if I’m going to make it through that shift––and the next few weeks––with my sanity intact, I need to get my head on straight.

It’s like having Pressley in my home and providing for her, even if it was just lunch and a cup of coffee, has drawn out some latent caveman tendencies I never knew I possessed. I want to conk her over the head with a club––figuratively speaking, of course––and drag her into my bedroom before branding her asmine.

It’s ridiculous.

I know it is.

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