That Secret Crush (Getting Lucky #3)(10)

“Sounds about right.”

She leans back in her chair with a cup of chicken-noodle soup. “Thanks for being there for me today,” she says sincerely.

I pop a chip in my mouth. “That’s what friends are for, Eve. No need to thank me unless you want to sit on my lap; then I’ll take that as a thank-you.”

“Never going to happen, Knightly. It’s sad that you keep trying.”

“Hopelessly optimistic.”

And that ass of hers is so fucking fine. Sure, we’re just friends, but I don’t think I would ever give up staring at it—or asking for it. It’s fun, constantly having blue balls around her—every man’s dream.

“Ha!” She laughs and swallows a spoonful of soup. “Hopelessly optimistic would be the last way I’d describe you. More like sarcastically pessimistic.”

She has me there. Optimism runs through the Knightly blood, but I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to access it.

“Sounds about right.” I nod and stick another chip in my mouth. “What are you up to tonight? Are you working? I was planning on bothering you at the Inn tonight.”

“Not working but probably drinking with the girls. Rylee is having everyone over.”

“If I put a wig on, think they’ll let me join?”

“Only if you wear a hot-pink skirt too.”

“Done.” I wink and pick up the iced tea we seem to be sharing, taking a swig and then handing it over to Eve. She presses her lips on the rim where mine were two seconds ago and downs the liquid without a second thought. I watch her throat contracting as she swallows, sending my imagination into overdrive as I picture my cock at her lips rather than the iced tea.

Yeah, okay, so I have a fucking crush on Eve.

It’s been impossible not to, but I’ve known the girl ever since I’ve known Eric, since we were ten years old and they moved to Port Snow from Pottsmouth the summer before fifth grade. Eric and I instantly hit it off after we were put on the same baseball team that summer. Eve, on the other hand, was just a tagalong—until I started noticing her on another level. Then I wanted to hang out with her a lot more. It started off with just thinking she was pretty, but when she started to gain confidence and sass me anytime she had a chance . . . fucking hell, I started to crush really hard. To the point that I was the idiot who would tease and make fun of her because I didn’t know how to control my emotions. And it only made her push back.

The tension between us built for years. Eric was oblivious, but I wasn’t. I knew I wanted her, but I never knew how to go about asking her out.

And I missed my opportunity in high school when we had our first dance. It had been my plan all along to ask her to be my date. I wanted to be the guy who stood an arm’s length apart from her and shuffled back and forth, but before I could strap on my balls and ask, Cory Morris stepped up and took her. He was about five inches taller than me at the time—I was a late bloomer in height, though not in the penis—and he won Eve over quickly.

A jealous fool, I spent most of high school pushing her buttons, and she pushed mine right back until we both placed each other squarely in the friend zone. She dated other guys while I dated other girls—and did stupid shit like fuck a girl’s armpit—then went on my merry way to culinary school.

And though we’re both single and living in Port Snow again, the opportunity for romance has passed. We’re destined to be friends for life.

Which is fine, truly. I have no problem ignoring my pesky feelings and staring at my friend’s ass. Well, I mean, I act like I have no problem with it. But there are times when I’m lying in bed, alone, wondering what she’s doing at night, what she’s wearing, if there would ever be an appropriate time for me to let her know about my “pesky feelings.” Probably not.

“I’d give you twenty dollars to show up at Rylee’s in nothing but a hot-pink skirt, wig, and bra.”

“Twenty bucks?” I mull it over, crunching down on a chip. “Nah.” I pat my stomach. “These abs are worth at least thirty dollars on their own.”

“Abs.” She snorts. “Please, don’t you mean whiskey gut?”

My eyes pop open as I sit straight up in my chair. “Excuse me? Did you just say I have a whiskey gut?”

“I mean . . . don’t you?”

“No. Where the fuck did you hear that?”

“Tony Larkin.”

“Ton—” I take a deep breath and lean in closer. “Tony Larkin has been trying to get into your pants since freshman year. He would say just about anything to make his unibrow seem more attractive.”

She smirks. “Prove it.”

Exasperated, I grab the hem of my shirt and lift it up, showing off my six-pack, one I work on every night. Unlike Rogan, who was born with an eight-pack, I actually have to put in some effort to make mine pop.

I watch carefully as Eve’s eyes roam my exposed stomach, taking in every inch, one divot at a time, until her eyes meet mine. Head tilted, she finally says, “Damn, you’re pale.”

Jesus.

I toss my shirt down and grab another half of a sandwich. “We live in fucking Maine—what did you expect?”

“Not to be blinded.” She blinks a few times. “Warn a girl to put on her sunglasses before you go flashing that around. You’re basically translucent. I think I saw your intestines.”