Because, look at her. She’s gorgeous, even with her face scrubbed of make-up.
“You look better.” I feast my eyes on the sight of her in our clothes. My pants, Troy’s sweatshirt. Pretty. Cute. Sexy.
“I heard there’s lasagna?” She steps forward tentatively.
I point to the plate I loaded up for her, sitting on the coffee table between Troy’s and mine. Flames from the fireplace flicker, sending soft yellow light over the living room. This looks like a scene for seduction, but that isn’t our aim.
I’m strangely nervous. So, like any rich asshole, I cover my uncertainty with command. “Have a seat. We’ll watch something and I’ll even let you pick the show.”
“What if I want to watch a syrupy sweet family drama?”
“Can’t guarantee I’ll watch much of it.” I flop down on the couch. “But I’ll watch you watch it, and that’s good enough for me.”
She rolls her eyes in disbelief. “Guess we’re watching Sweet Home Alabama.”
“Hey, that’s a good movie.” I grab the remote control and hand it to Danica.
More disbelief. Even Troy rolls his eyes. They’re right not to believe me. I’ve never seen that movie.
She ends up choosing a movie about alien cowboys. I still watch Danica more than I watch the screen. Every now and then, I catch Troy looking at her, too. We eat and laugh at the ridiculous space gadgetry. Danica yawns loudly during a chase scene, then boos when the love interests kiss.
“You don’t think they should kiss?” I ask.
“They didn’t earn that kiss.” She shakes her fist at the TV. “They just got away from the alien serial killer, have barely said three words to each other, and now they’re hooking up?”
I give her a pointed look. Does she not remember how fast we started fucking around last night?
She cocks her head, thinking—then bursts into laughter. “Okay, okay, fine.”
Troy shakes his head, chuckling to himself, until Danica puts her empty plate back on the coffee table and curls up against him.
A spike of jealousy arrows straight through my lungs.
He shoots me a bewildered look as she gets comfortable and rests her head against his chest.
“This okay?” Danica asks.
His arm comes down around her. “Yeah, this is fine.”
Fine? He thinks it’s fine? I have to think about my breathing, purposefully slowing it down. I’ve never been mad about sharing a woman with him before. In fact, I was often the one encouraging it. Like last night.
I stand and gather our plates to take to the kitchen. Danica barely looks in my direction and says, “Thanks.”
“No problem.” It takes all my self-control not to stomp into the kitchen like a child. I feel like an asshole and I haven’t done anything wrong. Should I go off to my own room and let those two cuddle on the couch like an old married couple?
You always feel too goddamn much.
It’s like a switch flips. I’m wallowing in feelings, and that shit isn’t right. I put the dishes away—calmly, carefully. Then I march back into the living room.
Danica is still curled against Troy. She’s messing with the folds of his shirt instead of watching the movie. Despite Troy’s and my resolution to keep things PG-13 tonight, I wonder if she’s interested in doing more.
Instead of putting myself on the far end of the sofa, I sit right next to her feet and curl my hand around her ankle. Just like Troy did to her last night.
She sucks in a careful breath.
Troy looks over at me. His face betrays nothing, but I know his mind. He’s wondering what the hell I’m thinking after I’d told him we wouldn’t fuck around with her tonight.
I turn back to the TV, my fingers firm on Danica’s ankle. I don’t have a foot fetish, but she does have very nice feet. Soft, delicate. I slide my hand up her leg, fingers reaching beneath the sweatpants. Are her legs soft all the way up?
