Page 10 of The Friend Zone


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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 comes 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 is 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.

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.”

She pronounces it “fee” instead of “f-eye.”

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 “manslut.”

Stupid term. Personally, I prefer “equal-opportunity fuck master.” Again, not telling Mac that.

“You don’t mind, do you?” I ask as we make our way out into the bright sunshine. Fresh air mixing with jet and bus fumes assaults my lungs. “Me picking you up?”

“No,” she says quickly, maybe too quickly. “Why would I mind?”

I shrug, sidestepping a businesswoman booking it into the terminal. “You didn’t tell me you were coming home.”

Until the words are out of my mouth, I don’t think I’d realized how much that stings.

It’s worse when she grimaces. “Yeah, I know...” She stares down at her red Chucks as she walks. “I should have told you. I just...”

“Ivy,” I warn.

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