Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(19)

Twinkling.

Like he’s enjoying being a shit.

“I should ask you to fetch my pajamas, but I sleep naked, so there’s no point,” I announce.

“You want a cowbell so you can call me to hang up your dress when you’ve flung it across the room?”

There’s no heat in his words. It’s like we’re playing a game not to see who can be more insulting, but who can be more outrageous.

Because there’s no way in hell anyone would give me a cowbell.

There’s also no way in hell he’s flirting with me, which is the other possibility reeling through my mind.

“I prefer a foghorn.” I bend to tug my boot off, and another splinter of pain makes me suck in a breath.

I really, really overdid it tonight.

Without looking at my face, Wyatt bends over my feet and tugs my boots off, first my right foot, then ever-so-carefully my left foot.

I duck my head, because there’s a sudden burn in my eyes that’s drifting into my sinuses as well. “Please don’t be nice to me,” I whisper. “Not when we’re alone. Though you owe me pretending to be my boyfriend this week, because that was a shitty thing to do to Grady.”

“I just wanted to confirm your feet stink. And they do.”

I shove him without thinking, because that’s what we do. “They do not.”

“I called you.”

And now I want to hit him for real, because the shift in his tone means he did just say exactly what I thought he just said, about exactly what I’ve been afraid he’ll want to talk about, and we are not talking about this. “My phone got busted in the accident. It’s apparently a recurring problem.”

“Beck had you a new phone with your same number sitting by your bed the minute you were conscious.”

“So?”

“So, I tried calling you for weeks.”

I swallow hard, because he’s not taking my easy excuses. And the truth isn’t nice. “I didn’t want to talk to you.”

“You usually don’t. But—”

“No buts. Thank you. I can get my dress.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“All water under the bridge. You were right. It was a mistake. Didn’t happen. Moving on. Okay?”

He takes my chin in his fingers and lifts my face until I can’t help but look at him while he studies me with those intense gray eyes.

His lashes are stupidly thick. They’re not long, but they’re thick. And his nose is slightly off-center, but not in a weird way. Just in a rugged way.

And his lips—

I’m breathing too loud. And he’s watching me too closely.

Like he can see way down deep to the fourteen-year-old girl inside who turned around one day and realized that one of my older brother’s best friends was cute. And a little awkward, and still annoying with the way he always seemed to know everything, but also reliable and familiar but…new.

And dating Lydia Baker, who was smart and pretty and on the cheerleading squad. Not the head cheerleader, but still a cheerleader.

He was seventeen to my fourteen, which was basically illegal, and because I’ve always been that girl who knew everything, yes, I knew he was illegal, and I knew why I got all warm in my belly when he looked at me, and I was also pissed that I couldn’t control my body’s reaction to him.

But I don’t feel like I know anything tonight.

I don’t know who I am.

I don’t know why I’m here.

I don’t know what I want.

Not past the next five minutes, anyway.

It’s not the first time I’ve felt this way.

And the last time ended with me broken.

“Was it my fault?” he asks.

“You weren’t driving the car, Wyatt.”

“But it was my fault you were.”

It wasn’t. He didn’t force me into the car. He didn’t choose my route. He didn’t make me do anything.

He even tried to stop me.

“It takes two. Quit being the martyr.”

“Nobody trusted Beck to give us the truth about how you were doing. And you wouldn’t answer your phone. I was scared shitless.”

“I’m fine. Same old annoying Ellie.”

And there he goes again, seeing right through me. “Yeah. Same old annoying Ellie.”

Fuck. I whimper out a laugh, because it’s so damn normal to have Wyatt calling me annoying that I’m in danger of crying. “Shut up.”

“Annoying, know-it-all Ellie,” he adds.

I reach out to shove his shoulder, but there’s no speed or force behind my hand, and I end up resting it on his bicep instead. “Mansplaining Wyatt,” I whisper.

His eyes are boring into mine the same way they did that night while he plants his hands on either side of my legs. “Planner Ellie.”

“Stick up your butt Wyatt.”

“Refuses to take help Ellie.”

“Refuses to admit anyone else can know how to do anything Wyatt.”

Our faces are drifting closer. This is a bad idea. We’ve been here before, and it ended in disaster. Worse than disaster. I need to shove him away for real.

Or…we need to practice so that on the rare occasions this week when we have to be seen together in public for whatever reason—Shipwreck isn’t that big—we can fake affection.