The Friend Zone (Game On, #2)(6)

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Gray


I can’t believe I’m holding her in my arms. Ivy Mackenzie. Aside from Drew, I’ve never clicked with someone so quickly. Now she’s here.

And, God, she feels good. Solid, real. Soft, warm. She smells of airplane food, stale coffee, and travel. Not the best scent. But beneath that, there’s a hint of something sweetly feminine, like sugar and vanilla. I draw it into my lungs and feel a stab of alarm because it’s going to my head—the smaller, greedy one. Not the way I want to think of my best girl. And if she notices my reaction, I’ll feel like a dirty perv. I ought to let her go. Take a step back.

But a sudden and not-altogether-unexpected shyness hits me. What if it isn’t like before? What if now that we’re face-to-face everything turns awkward? I’ve never had a close female friend. Never really wanted one.

Part of me doesn’t want to let her go because then we’ll have to talk, to look each other in the eye. Another part of me just wants to hold her because it feels so damn good. Perfect. But I can’t stand here forever. Eventually, she’ll want to be let down. Only she’s clinging to me too. Her long limbs wrapped up around mine. Maybe she’s just as nervous. The idea gives me the courage to ease my grip and let her slide down my length.

She doesn’t go far. She’s tall. Amazonian tall. I didn’t expect that. But I like it. I’m six foot six and two-hundred-fifty pounds of muscle, which means girls are usually dwarfed by my size. I’m constantly having to bend down to so much as wrap an arm around them, let alone get a kiss. And f*cking them? I worry about crushing some girls. Literally.

But Mac? She’s got to be around six feet tall. The top of her head fits nicely under my chin. And though she’s nowhere near fat, she’s not a twig either. Just long limbs and soft, sweet curves.

Shit. I’m ogling her. I take another step back and meet her eyes. I can’t help but smile. I’m so f*cking happy to see her, it’s a little scary.

“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you,” I tell her, still nervous. “You look…different from the picture your dad has on his desk.” It’s the only one I’d seen of her.

Mac’s blunt little nose wrinkles in disgust. “God, not that one of me at fifteen?”

“Pretty sure that’s the one.” I’m trying not to laugh, but it’s hard and she sees it.

Her scowl grows. “That’s a horrible picture. I’m going to kill Dad for leaving it out in the open.”

I don’t blame her. She was a round-faced, braces wearing teen in that picture. In my mind, I’d still viewed her that way: chubby cheeks, button nose, big brown eyes.

The reality is different. Her eyes are still big and brown beneath almost straight brows, but the baby fat is gone. Her cheeks are high and defined, her jaw a smooth curve. And, no, I didn’t think she’d still have straggly hair pulled back tight in a barrette. Or maybe I did—but it’s not straggly or pulled back.

Her glossy dark brown hair is cut fairly short, coming to rest just above her shoulders, with a strong sweep of bangs over those eyes of hers. I gravitate toward women who wear their hair long and flowing, but Mac’s cut is kind of sixties retro.

My girl, I realize, is hot. Not obvious, sex-kitten hot, but girl-next-door, I-gotta-know-what-she’s-hiding-under-that-shirt kind of hot.

No. Not going there. I’m just proud, is all. Mac won’t lack for attention. Frowning, I bend down to take hold of her luggage. “Let’s get you home.”

We fall into an easy pace, her long legs keeping time with mine, which is so novel to me that I find myself relaxing into my natural stride, not the shortened steps I usually take around women.

I can’t seem to stop looking at her. It’s weird, every line and curve of her is utterly new to me and yet familiar in some bone-deep way. It makes me think of amicable numbers, each one capable of summing up the other.

Fuck, this girl is already turning me into an emotional sap. But it doesn’t make me any less happy.

“Your dad sends his apologies.”

“I just bet,” she mutters, hurt and anger simmering beneath the surface. And I feel like shit for her, and more than a little pissed at Big Mac for putting that hurt in her eyes.

“He was stuck—”

“Taking care of a client,” she finishes for me with a wave of her hand. “I know.” A small sigh leaves her. “I’m used to it, believe me.”

I do. Doesn’t make it any better, though. It makes me even more pissed off at her dad.

“I’d have been here on time, but ah…” Hell, I don’t want to tell her that I’d only just gotten the call to pick her up. But she figures this out on her own, and her mouth tilts in a smirk.

“So I’m guessing he hit up Fiona. Only Fi was out, so he begged you.” Her brows draw together. “What’s Fi’s excuse, do you know?”

“Puking her guts out, apparently. He said she has the flu.”

“Oh.” Mac’s annoyance visibly deflates. “Poor Fi.”

I haven’t met Mac’s younger sister. I know she goes to a local all-girls college, where I’d trolled for chicks during my freshman and sophomore years. But I’m not telling Mac that. She already gives me grief for being a “man slut.” Stupid term. Personally, I prefer “equal-opportunity f*ck master.” Again, not telling Mac that.