“What’s wrong?”
“Are you kidding?” I wheezed, clutching my side.
Her eyes slid sideways and back to me. “No?”
“Baz fell on me. He weighs a ton. You were there. Remember?”
“Hey, don’t fat shame him! That’s mean. And you could get canceled.”
“What?” With a wince, I straightened to stare at her. “I’m not fat shaming anyone. Surely, you’ve noticed that I’m a husky hunk of beef?”
She went red, which was interesting.
“People are supposed to be all shapes and sizes. Sheep aren’t. They literally should all look the same. Bodily, Baz has more in common with Mini M than he does other sheep, and that’s a problem. Especially for my ribs.”
“I’m sorry.”
I waved off the apology. She should be, but I wasn’t a grudge holder.
She added, “And thank you. For the saving.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“You weren’t acting like you were hurt.” She eyed my hands holding my side. “I didn’t realize.”
I would have laughed if I could. “Are you kidding? Baz nearly made mashed potatoes of my balls. Again, you were there, Princess, you saw it.”
“Yes, but unless you need to be profiled in medical journals, that”—she pointed at where I was holding my ribs—“is not where your balls are. If you’re hurt, you should say something. Don’t be all toxic masculinity about it. Sit down, and let me look.”
“If you want to see my balls, you’ll have to buy me dinner first,” I joked.
Lyssa stared me down. Those massive blue orbs of hers were weapons.
“Fine.” I peeled off my shirt and sat in the chair she pointed to. Then I kept yapping, because having Lyssa inspect my injury made me nervous, and joking let me pretend everything was normal.
“I’ll admit I’m a cheap date. I like pasta and tacos. I really like ramen. Don’t take me for burgers, I can’t have it getting around that I’m basic. Oh, and I’m a slut for cheesecake. Buy me a cheesecake, and I’ll let you put it in my butt.”
“The cheesecake?”
My barked laugh turned into a yelp.
“Because if you want me to stuff cheesecake up your ass,” Lyssa continued, “you’re taking me out. And be warned, I have expensive tastes.”
I bet she did. It was clear this girl came from money. It wasn’t her million suitcases that told me that, it was her vibe. Lyssa Luxe was a rich girl.
She pulled me out of my head by breathing into her hands, then flattening one over my side. “Tell me if this hurts.”
“It does!”
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“It hurts now, Lyssa.”
“No, I mean tell me if it hurts more.” She began running her hand down my side.
The pain wasn’t any worse when she did that, which was confirmation this wasn’t anything more serious than a bruise. Still, the sensation of being inspected like this, by her, was unsettling. When my manly yelping stopped, Lyssa realized that I was fine. Her hand stilled and our eyes met. Her eyes were so big I could practically see my reflection in them. Buying time, I dropped my eyes. Unfortunately, that was worse. Her short skirt showed a lot of smooth, creamy thigh.
I’d never gotten an eyeful of her legs on her videos. Which was a good thing, because the sight was doing things to me. Making me think all kind of depraved things. I knew I shouldn’t be thinking about my sister’s best friend’s thigh—her limbs were none of my damn business.
