Blurred Lines (Love Unexpectedly #1)(69)

“Thanks a lot, ma’am,” Demi says as she brushes past Parker. She ignores me altogether.

“You’re welcome, sweetie,” Parker says with a smile. “You need a cab?”

“Nah, my friends are at the bar just around the corner.”

“Okay, then,” Parker says with a little finger wiggle. “Bye-bye now!”

Neither of us move after she shuts the door behind Demi.

“I know what that was,” I say finally. “Payback for that time I told that one girl that you had a doll collection—”

But Parker’s not interested in memory lane, because she interrupts me.

“Talk or mute?” she asks.

“I, um, what?” I ask, confused at the sudden appearance of our old game. Generally we do it only when the other person clearly has something on their mind.

And while I definitely have stuff on my mind, it’s nothing that I can talk about— “You’re not deciding whether you talk or mute,” she explains. “You’re deciding whether I talk or mute.”

What the hell?

“Why would I decide whether you talk or not?” I ask.

She meets my gaze steadily. “Because there’s a very, very good chance you’re not going to like what I have to say.”

I’m not really loving the sound of that, but…

“This something you want to get off your chest?” I ask warily.

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

I blow out a long breath. “Then tell me.”

She opens her mouth, then seems to lose her nerve, because she shuts it. “Can we do this in the living room?”

“Um, okay,” I say, because she’s already walking away.

“And I could use a drink for this!” she calls.

Do I need one? I wonder quietly to myself.

“You should get one for yourself, too!” she calls again.

Great.

I dig around behind some embarrassingly old leftovers until I find a bottle of prosecco left from when this used to be Parker’s fridge, too.

I pop the cork and dump hefty pours into two coffee mugs.

As I pour, I wonder if I hadn’t left the sparkling wine in the fridge for precisely this reason.

A hope that she’d come home.

And here she is. And I’m glad to see her, I am. It’s just…I almost wish she hadn’t come over.

Because all I can think about is begging her to stay.

But we have to get through whatever big announcement has her all wound up and pacing around the living room like a caged animal.

I hand her a mug and she stares at it for a moment, but doesn’t move to take it.

“Sorry it’s not crystal,” I say. “This is a bachelor pad now.”

“Obviously,” she says. “Demi seemed…um, partially clothed.”

I take a big sip from my own mug. It’s not my favorite drink, but my beer supply is low and I need the booze.

“For the record, I didn’t know she was crazy when I brought her home,” I say.

“Uh-huh.”

The skepticism in her tone says she clearly thinks I’m still sleeping my way through Portland, and I open my mouth to refute her, but think better of it.

The last thing an almost-engaged woman needs to hear is that her best friend is still hung up on their last sexual encounter.

I freeze as a horrible thought occurs to me.

Suddenly, I know exactly why Parker is here.

I know why she’s so tense.

And I know why she thinks I won’t want to hear what she has to say.

Because I don’t. I don’t want to hear it.

I don’t want to hear that Lance proposed. I don’t want to hear that she’s going to get married to someone else.

“Mute,” I say a little desperately. “I want you to mute.”

Her eyes flicker. “But you said—”

“I changed my mind. I don’t want to hear it.”

I know it’s selfish. Of course I know.

And eventually I’ll hear, and I’ll congratulate her and I’ll even toast her wedding, but I just can’t hear it right now.

I can’t hear that the girl I love is going to get married to someone else.

I love her.

I swallow and turn away from her, squeezing my eyes shut.

I love her so much.

“Ben, wait,” she says, coming toward me. “I won’t talk if you don’t want me to, but at least tell me why you changed your mind—”

I spin back to face her, and my pain must be all over my face because her eyes widen and she takes a step back in surprise.

And all of a sudden, it becomes too much. She’s too damn beautiful, and I care too damn much.

“Talk or mute,” I say roughly.

“But you just said—you’re confusing me, Ben.”

“Me,” I say. “We’re talking about me now. Do you want me to talk?”

A little line appears between her eyes. “Do you have something you want to get off your chest?”

It’s a nearly verbatim replay of our earlier conversation, except with the roles reversed, and suddenly I lose patience with all our stupid word games and how we’re tiptoeing around each other.

“Sit down,” I say.