“Even creepier that so many did it. They had to actually go out and buy a Tide-To-Go pen too.” I’ve never been able to get used to fandom. That’s one part of this job I despise.
“I don’t think it’s going to stop any time soon either. They’ve been tagging us both in video reposts and using the hashtag #TideGirl. Super flattering.” She scrunches her nose. “It’s a spin on something I said in the video.”
“You mean when you said you wished you could use a Tide pen to wipe all the other women out of my life?” I regret bringing it up immediately. Clearly she doesn’t want to revisit it.
Bree pulls her hand from mine so she can cover her cheeks. “Tequila, Nathan. Tequila made me say it!”
I laugh, hoping to ease her tension even though all I want to do is sink into a depressed ball on the floor. I’ll be better tomorrow when I can reset my brain and wake up without the hope of a real relationship with Bree.
“Alright, listen, I want you to lay really low until I can call Nicole and get her to do some damage control. No walking home alone, and if you have to go to the grocery store or somewhere public, I’ll send my bodyguard with you until all of this blows over.”
“Damage control?! I damaged you! Oh my gosh, I’m the worst friend.”
“Bree—the damage control is for you, not me.” I’m not the one who despises the spotlight. Or the idea of a romantic relationship between us.
Her shoulders relax. “Oh. Okay. Well, that’s a little better.” She pauses and looks at the pile of fan mail like she’s trying to harness magical abilities and send it all into another dimension. It doesn’t work. Her powers aren’t strong enough. “Can we just go eat and forget about all of this for a little bit?”
“Sure. I’m just going to change my shirt, because ironically, this one has a stain on it.”
We both laugh, and it lifts a little of the tension in the air. I pull off my shirt and walk toward my dresser to grab a clean one. That’s when I catch Bree’s face in the mirror. She’s still in here, staring at my back with her mouth slightly open. She’s not looking away. Her eyes are glued to me, and I have to work so hard not to flex. Wait, should I flex? No. That would make it ridiculously obvious that I see her checking me out, right?
But she is checking me out. There’s a spark in her eyes I haven’t noticed before. I mean, she’s seen me with my shirt off probably close to a hundred times, and I always thought she was indifferent to my body. Unimpressed. Now I’m wondering if she always looks at me like this when I’m not watching her…
Hope springs back up in my chest, and I decide to turn this into a little experiment of sorts.
I reach into a drawer and pull out a plain white t-shirt, stretching my neck side to side a few times like my muscles are just oh so tight. I lift the shirt over my head and tug it down in the sexy way I was made to do it in those Jockey commercials. I spread my shoulders wide and lift my arms, knowing full well it makes all my muscles bunch and ripple. Can someone get me some oil right quick? That would be great.
I’m not even sorry because this experiment is producing some very compelling results. Bree’s eyes are fixed on me, and she’s biting her lip almost to the point of drawing blood. Her eyelids are heavy in a way that says she likes what she sees.
That is not the look of a woman with sisterly feelings.
Not. One. Bit.
I turn around, and in that fraction of a moment, she’s looking away like she’s been an innocent little lamb the whole time. Her cheeks are pink though. Pretty ripe strawberries.
“Ready?” she asks in a high peppy voice. She can’t meet my eyes, and suddenly I’m wondering if maybe the tequila didn’t make her spout nonsense. Maybe it removed her filter. And maybe the guys were right.