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If I screw things up with Chelsea or make an enemy of John, it won’t be just losing friends. It will be losing the closest thing I know to family.
“Of course I care about Chelsea,” I finally answer.
“Then understand I’m trying to help. I want her to end up with the right guy. Do you hear what I’m saying?” John’s voice sounds strained.
Oh, I hear you loud and clear, best friend. I’m good as a stand-in when you’re not here, a solid older brother figure. A friend thing. But not as a potential boyfriend. I’m not the man she could be with, but I make an adequate bouncer for her blind dates.
I struggle for what to say and finally settle on: “I’m just not sure these guys from the app are the way to go.”
I don’t add how I wish John sawmeas the right person.
“I see it as a means to an end,” John says. “The end being Chelsea with the right guy.”
The right guy. Every time John says it, the phrase burns me more.
“You can always trust me to take care of Chelsea,” I manage to grit out.
“I know I can,” John says, and I only hope he still feels that way when I finally come clean with them both.
* * *
I hear Chelsea coming down the hall around eight-thirty, and I can already conclude her date with the Penguin didn’t go well. First of all, they only left a little over an hour ago. The angry clack of her heels coming down the hall is the second indication. The last is the way she can’t enter the right code on the first or second or even third try.
My hand is on the knob to let her in when Chelsea finally gets the code and bursts in, colliding with me. I stumble back. My hands grasp her arms, steadying us from the gale force of her wet body hitting me.
Wait—herwetbody?
“Where’s your date?” I ask. “And why are you drenched?”
Even though my shirt is already damp from being pressed against her, I don’t mind having Chelsea this close. Until she tilts her chin to look up at me and my stomach drops.
There is fire in her eyes and mascara running down her cheeks. Baring her teeth, she gives a frustrated scream. Then she shivers, and I instantly pull her closer, wrapping my arms around her back.
“What happened? Where’s Gary?” I demand.
“Do. Not. Mention. His. Name.”
“What did he do?”
My voice is a quiet threat, and Chelsea blinks in surprise, opening her mouth to answer when another full-body shiver moves through her. Even her lips tremble and her teeth chatter.
Without loosening my hold on her, I grab a clean towel from the stack I just folded.
Because I’m the loser who’s been sitting at home, folding laundry while worrying about her date.
“Here.” I drape the towel over her shoulders and rub my hands up and down over it, keeping her tucked close to my body.
My emotions are a messy cocktail of emotions—worry, anger, and, as inappropriate as it may be at the moment, attraction. Wet and angry though she may be, Chelsea is in my arms. This is where I want her to be. Always.
As I rub the towel over her shoulders, I remind myself to breathe. And then Chelsea’s hands find my waist, just above my hips, and the struggle to breathe becomes a whole lot more intense.
It’s not that Chelsea and I haven’t ever hugged or touched. She and John are both extremely physical people. They treat hugging like an Olympic sport they hope to medal in, and both touch people like they have a compulsion to leave their fingerprints everywhere.
Aside from the other night when I almost kissed her, our touches have always been casual, friendly: a hand pat here, a finger poke there, a brief hug or friendly shove.
There is nothing casual about this embrace. The room closes in until there’s only me and Chelsea and very little oxygen. I’m not sure if I’m hearing her heartbeat or mine. My breath hitches in my chest.
I need to get a grip on my romantic feelings, because Chelsea is upset and soaking wet. I can’t be thinking about how much I want to kiss her when I don’t know what the Penguin did to her and why she’s dripping onto the hardwoods.
