Blurred Lines (Love Unexpectedly #1)(11)

Still, I squeeze her hand, and start to set her aside again.

“You’re leaving?” she asks.

“Just for a few minutes.” I plant a spontaneous kiss on the side of her head.

She watches me with swollen, bloodshot eyes. “I’m ruining your night. You should go out.”

I squeeze her knee. “Don’t make me make a house rule about you not being an idiot.”

“I make the house rules. Not you.” She gives me a weepy smile.

I smile back. There’s my girl.

“Give me ten minutes,” I say, squeezing her knee again.

I grab my wallet off the counter before dashing to my car. I make it back in an impressive eight minutes, armed with supplies.

A quick peek in the living room shows she’s still on the couch, although she’s curled up on her side now.

I rummage around in our cupboards, but I can’t find any champagne flutes. I swear we used to have, like, ten, but then, this is a twenty-something house. Fine stemware doesn’t last long. I settle for a clunky wineglass-type thing and, after popping the cork, fill the glass nearly to the brim.

I return to the living room where Parker’s pulled herself into a sitting position. “Sorry I was lame,” she says, looking embarrassed.

“Aw, Parks. I’ve known you for six years. I love your lame.”

I hand her the glass, noting the way her eyes light up at the sight of the contents.

“Champagne?” she asks.

“Cheap prosecco. I had to make do with the corner store since it was close.”

“Worried I’d slit my wrists if you left me any longer?” she calls after me as I go to the kitchen to get myself a beer.

“More like worried you’d be singing Celine Dion while eating mayo out of the jar.”

“The night is young!” she calls back.

I smile, because she’s sounding more like her usual self, and as I pop the top off my beer, I pull out my phone and send a quick text message to Andie, the girl I’d hooked up with last weekend. I’d been hoping for a repeat, but…

Hey babe, can’t make it out tonight. Next weekend?

I start to put the phone back in my pocket when it buzzes. Andie is a fast texter.

Did u just blow me off?

I wince at the slightly proprietary tone of the text, but I still respond. My roommate needs me.

Sure. I bet. I’ve seen your “roommate.”

“Whatever,” I mutter. I shove the phone into the back pocket of my jeans even as it buzzes again. Andie just showed her hand, and it was a bad one. I don’t care how gorgeous a girl is, there’s one thing she can’t be:

Jealous.

I wouldn’t say I’m the type of guy prone to pet peeves, but I’ve developed a definite annoyance for people’s dull-witted assumption that just because Parker and I get along, enjoy each other’s company, and are compatible housemates means we’re supposed to be f*ck buddies on the side.

Everyone acts like we’re giving the middle finger to nature or something. So, in turn, I give the middle finger to anyone who implies we’re anything other than what we are:

Friends who happen to have different chromosomes.

Get over it, world.

Also, note to self, remind Parker that you do too know something of biology.

I’m about to rejoin Parker on the couch, wondering if she’ll be able to hold it together long enough to tell me what exactly went down with Lance, when there’s a knock at the door.

It’s John Harris, one of my good buddies. “?’Sup,” he says, letting himself in like he has a million times. “Wanted to see if you want to grab a beer at O’Perry’s before the party.”

John skids to a halt when he sees the red-nosed Parker on the couch, holding her enormous glass of bubbly between her two hands.

“Sweetheart,” he says to her. “Who do I need to beat up?”

Parker and John have always gotten along, and she smiles, even though it looks a little forced. “I find I’m unexpectedly single,” she says.

“That f*ckwit.” He opens his arms. “Hug?”

She hesitates for just the briefest of seconds, and, instinctively knowing she wants space, I thwop John on the shoulder. “Dude. Don’t be that guy.”

“What? I said hug, not cop a feel,” he says as he drops his arms. “So I take it no party tonight, huh? You girls gonna stay in, eat ice cream, and bash men?”

“Popcorn, actually,” I say, pointing to the table where I’d placed the microwave popcorn I’d picked up along with Parker’s wine.

John lifts his eyebrows. “Two boxes? Aren’t there three bags per box? Are you starting your own movie theater?”

“We always burn at least one bag. Our microwave is older than God.”

“We should give the burnt popcorn to God!” Parker bursts out, before busting up laughing.

John looks at me out of the corner of his eye, and I mime a quick back and forth drinking motion. Parker’s oversized pour of prosecco is nearly empty already. Seems we’re headed toward a drown-your-sorrows kind of evening.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says, heading back toward the front door. “If she passes out early and you want to come out, text me?”

“Sure.”