Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters, #2)(66)

Probably because if she walked out of the guest room at this moment and kissed him, he would drop to his knees and weep with gratitude.

I’m wrapped around her little finger.

He needed to unwrap himself. Fast.

Didn’t he?

Here he was, making her pancakes, more apologies for the inexcusable thing he’d said to her last night crammed up tight behind his windpipe. Then it’s a good thing we’re not going to fuck, because you’d just be another hookup to me afterward.

Christ, he didn’t deserve to live after lying like that.

Or better yet, he did deserve to live with the expression on her face afterward and the knowledge that he’d put it there. Scumbag. How dare he? How dare he say poisonous shit like that to this girl who, perhaps unwisely, gave a damn about him?

He’d spent a long time trying to avoid the belittling expression on a woman’s face when she implied he was a hall pass or a meaningless diversion. The one Melinda had all those years ago while lying in bed with his best friend. He’d never thought about seeing that look on Hannah’s face—not until last night. Not until he’d confessed everything to her and his past had nearly crowded him out of the car.

If Hannah ever looked at him like that, she might as well slice the heart right out of his chest. Melinda’s betrayal would be laughable compared to what Hannah’s disappointment or dismissal would do to him. Even the possibility had caused him to strike first. To say something to push her away and protect himself in the process.

God. He’d hurt her.

And she might have expressed that pain, but . . . she’d forgiven him with that kiss.

That purposeful, no-holding-back kiss.

Which brought him back to his current worry. Who would walk out of the guest-room door? His best girl Hannah? Or Hannah with a plan? Because that kiss last night, the one that turned his dick into a stone monument, had resolve behind it. She’d stroked his tongue without any hesitation. Like she wanted him to know she meant it. She was all in. And that terrified him as much as it . . .

Teased hope to life in his chest.

Dangerous, stupid hope that made him ask questions like What if?

What if he just put his head down and dealt with the lack of respect from his crew? Took on some of the responsibilities he tried so hard to avoid?

Because someone worthy of Hannah would need to be responsible. Not him. Right? Just . . . someone. Whoever it was. He couldn’t have an apartment totally lacking in character or comforts. He would need to have upward mobility in his job. Like going from a relief skipper to the captain. But that was just an example, because he wasn’t referring to himself.

He wasn’t.

Fox nodded firmly and flipped the pancake on the griddle, approximately 4.8 seconds passing before his attention snuck back to the door to watch the shadows move underneath. How ridiculous to miss someone he’d only seen the night before. Starting tomorrow, he’d be on the boat for five days. If he missed her after one night apart, 120 hours were going to be pretty damn inconvenient. Maybe he should practice blocking the emotion now.

You don’t miss her.

He examined the churning in his chest.

Well, that hadn’t worked.

“Hannah,” he called, his voice sounding unnatural. “Breakfast.”

The shadows stopped moving briefly, started again. “Coming in a sec.”

Fox let out a breath.

Great. They were going to pretend like last night never happened. They were going to act like he hadn’t spilled the insecurities he’d harbored for the majority of his life. Like he never revealed the seemingly well-natured ridicule he received from the crew. They’d kissed before and gotten over it.

This would be no different.

Why was the churn in his chest getting worse?

Maybe . . . he didn’t want them to get over it.

When Hannah walked out of the bedroom, Fox’s spatula paused in midair and he sucked up the sight of her like a vacuum cleaner.

No bun today. Her hair was down. Smooth, like she’d used one of those irons on it. And she wore a short, loose olive-green dress instead of her usual jeans. Earrings. Suede black boots that reached all the way up to her knees, making those hints of visible thighs look like dessert.

I should have jacked off.

It was hard enough to be around Hannah ordinarily. Spending the day with her in Seattle dressed for easy access? Torture. He wouldn’t be able to blink without seeing the ankles of those boots crossed at the small of his back.

The smell of burning blasted him back to the present. Great. He’d decimated the pancake. Turned it almost totally black while ogling the girl who was making him consider buying some throw pillows and window treatments.

“Hey,” she said, tugging on one of her earrings.

“Hey,” he returned, picking up the burned pancake with his fingers and throwing it in the trash, pouring fresh batter onto the pan. “You look nice.”

And I’d like to throw you down on the couch and devour you.

“Thank you.”

Fox hated the tension hanging between them. It didn’t belong. So he searched for a way to dispel it. “How late did you stay up making a road-trip playlist?”

“Too late,” she answered without hesitation, wincing. “You can’t really blame me, though. We’re going to a recording studio in the grunge capital of the world. I’m overstimulated.” She slid onto one of the stools in front of the kitchen island and propped her chin on a fist. “Sorry, babe. You’re going to be sick to death of Nirvana and Pearl Jam by this afternoon.”