“Hey, Freckles.”
She rubbed her cheek on the gray cotton of his long-sleeved shirt, stepped back, and shoved him playfully. “Hey, Peacock.”
No one was hitting on anyone. Or pulling alpha moves.
Friends. That’s what this relationship was.
She wasn’t going to mess that up by objectifying him. There was more to Fox than a chiseled face, thick arms, and an air of danger. Just like there was a lot more to her than being a coffee holder and note taker.
Fox seemed to notice the glumness eclipse her joy, because he picked up the only black bag in the pile—correctly assuming it was hers—and threw his opposite arm around her shoulders, guiding her toward the apartment building where he lived, across from the docks. “You let me fix your noggin, I’ll throw in a cookie with that ice cream.”
She leaned into him and sighed. “Deal.”
Chapter Four
You’re off to a fine start, idiot.
After his intervention with Brendan, he’d had a few weeks to sit on the fact that Hannah was coming to stay with him. A lot of that time had been spent out on the water, the ultimate head clearer. It was going to be no problem. A girl would be sleeping in his guest room. He’d be in the other room. With no expectation of sex. Great.
Causal sex was easier than this.
Before Hannah, Fox had relied on his personality a grand total of once in his life when it came to a woman. His one and only serious relationship hadn’t gone over well, mostly because it had only been serious to him. His college girlfriend’s perspective had been entirely different. Yeah, Fox had learned the hard way that he couldn’t escape the assumptions people made about him—that he was temporary entertainment. Growing up, he’d ached to escape this town and the role his face—and to be fair, his actions—had carved out for him. God, he’d tried. But those expectations followed him everywhere.
So he’d stopped trying.
If you’re laughing with them, they can’t laugh at you, right?
Looking down at the crown of Hannah’s head, Fox swallowed hard. They were walking past Blow the Man Down, and he could practically hear every stool in the place swiveling to watch Fox escort Hannah toward his apartment. They would be making jokes. Chuckling into their beers. Speculating. And, shit, how could he even blame them? Most of the time, Fox was the one making jokes about himself.
How was Seattle? they would ask him, eager to be entertained by his exploits. Distracted from their fishing stories for a moment.
Filthy place, he’d say, winking at them. Filthy.
Now he had the nerve to put his arm around Hannah? Distractingly pretty, endlessly interesting, not-after-his-dick Hannah. They were the Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood crossing the street in front of the docks, her no-nonsense bag dangling from his free hand. And when they stopped in front of his building so he could unlock the door, Fox was painfully aware of Hannah glancing back from where they’d come, hoping to catch a glimpse of her director.
He’d never been jealous over a girl in his life. Except for this one. When he’d caught sight of Sergei bundling Hannah down the stairs of the bus, his head ducked toward her in concern, that ugly green had splashed across his vision like a rogue wave across the deck, reminding him of the first time he’d heard the director’s name. His first impulse had been to break the guy’s nose—the opposite of what he should be doing. If Hannah was his friend, why would he want to mess up her budding romance?
Maybe he was jealous in a friendly way?
A total possibility.
People got jealous over their friends. Right? It stood to reason that Fox’s first female friend would be the one to inspire the feeling. He did covet this relationship, even though it scared him. If he was a scale, hope would sit on one side, fear on the other. Hope that he could be more than a hookup to her. Fear that he’d fail at it and be exposed.
Again.
“Thank you for letting me crash,” Hannah said, smiling up at him. “I hope you didn’t take down all the Baywatch posters on my account.”
“I hid them in my closet with my Farrah Fawcett centerfold.” That got a laugh out of her, but Fox could see she was still distracted by something. It took him the entire walk up the stairs to convince himself he wouldn’t make it worse by bringing it up. “So . . .” he said, opening his apartment door, tipping his head to indicate she should enter. The first girl he’d ever brought to his place. No big deal at all. “You want to tell me what’s bothering you?”
She squinted an eye. “Did you miss the whole head-injury thing?”
“Definitely not.” If he didn’t get antiseptic on the cut soon, he was going to sweat through his shirt. “But that’s not what’s bugging you.”