Page 33 of Dirty Like Dylan
Nothing new, right? Lately, we just couldn’t seem to hit our groove with any woman we met.
At least, Ash couldn’t hit his groove. And I was starting to feel bad hooking up without him. Like I was leaving him behind.
But what was I gonna do, hold his dick for him and help him put it in?
Something was off with him. Way the fuck off. He just wasn’t happy, like he couldn’t let himself be happy or something. And that was hard for me. Happy was my normal. All this angsty-broody-miserable bullshit was really gonna start fucking with my mojo.
For the first time in the six years that Ash and I had been best friends, there was tension, thick in the air between us. I couldn’t remember a time, before this, that we’d ever been at odds. Usually the dude made me laugh my ass off.
But when was the last time we’d split a gut together?
Or had a woman in bed between us?
Too fucking long ago, on both counts.
I watched as he served up the scrambled eggs with a sneer, like they’d personally ruined his day—onto two plates.
“Sleep here last night?” I finally ventured, as if I didn’t know the answer.
“Fell asleep on the couch.”
Of course.
I watched him plate the bacon he’d already cooked up, along with the hash-browns and a handful of strawberries. The dude cooked better meals for me than any woman had ever tried to. “You gonna make up a plate for Amber?”
He shot me a pissy look. Then, without a word, he grabbed another plate from the cupboard and filled it. But I noticed he didn’t put any bacon on it, which meant he’d been paying attention. Busted.
“So. Why didn’t you go sleep at your place? You know, with the hot photographer chick?”
“She’s too granola for me,” he muttered, dropping the plates on the island.
“Too sweet?” I ventured.
“Too crunchy.”
I chuckled under my breath. “Coulda fooled me, man.”
“Please,” he grumbled, shooting me a glance. “You gonna wear those tighty-whities all fucking day, or you gonna go put some pants on?”
I ignored that. This was my house. I’d put on pants—or not—when I damn well wanted to. “So you’re telling me that you’re immune to her perky tits and her big green eyes?”
“She has eyes?” he said, sounding totally disinterested as he tossed cutlery and condiments on the island.
“Right. ’Cause you never noticed.”
“I noticed. The freckles. The flowers.” He shook his head a little. “Not my speed.”
“Jesus,” I muttered. “You doing this again?”
“Doing what?” He spared me another glance.
“I thought after Elle you’d sworn off this shit.”
“What shit?”
I’d reached for the coffee pot, and when I turned back to him, I caught his gaze flickering down my body. He was checking me out, like he so often did, but as usual, he pretended like he wasn’t.
Busted again.