Umm . . . they better be if she’s snuggled into me and watching a movie.

  “Cool,” I answer lamely. Deacon and I are just friends. So . . . I should be relieved by that declaration. But I actually feel confused. But it’s a good thing . . . isn’t it?

  She lifts up to look me in the eyes. “We’ve only ever been friends.” Her finger draws slow, lazy circles on my chest. “Just thought you should know.”

  I grip her chin with my forefinger and thumb and say, “Thank you.”

  She nods and then lies back down where she keeps her hand on my chest.

  It’s comfortable. Feels right, having her here in my room, in my bed, in my arms. She fits perfectly against my side, and I don’t feel the need to flee or tell her to leave. In fact, it’s the opposite. I’m trying to figure out a way to keep her here all night.

  As the movie plays, we stay silent. She chuckles here and there, and it’s a cute sound that travels down my body and ends at my crotch, making it harder and harder to focus on the movie.

  Because I can’t seem to control myself—the need to touch her is taking over my brain—I start massaging her scalp with my fingers, loving the way the silky strands feel as they filter past my fingertips. Her body melts deeper into mine and a small moan falls out of her mouth when I move closer to her ear.

  Fuck, that sound.

  It does nothing to calm my aching cock, and I pray to Jesus Christ Himself that Indie can’t tell how turned on I am. I hope she hasn’t noticed my shorter breaths, or how my fingers dig deeper into her scalp every time she shifts against me, her breasts pressing into my side.

  I honestly don’t know what’s going on between us. I don’t know if what I’m doing is okay or if I’m crossing a weird line from friends to semi-relationship. I have no fucking clue.

  All I know is that I like her right where she is, and I’ll keep her here for as long as she wants to be.

  * * *

  “I used some of the toothpaste in the bathroom,” Indie says, walking back into my room. “I hope that’s okay.”

  I stretch my arms above my head. The sun’s coming through the window heating up the back of my body. “What’s mine is yours, Mayhem.”

  While she was in the bathroom, I changed out of my jeans I wore all night and into a pair of sweats and a fresh shirt. I was the first to go to the bathroom, so I wouldn’t blast her with morning breath.

  Last night, toward the end of the movie, I felt her breathing slow and her body completely relax. She fell asleep, and I was perfectly okay with that. I turned off the TV and pulled a blanket over us. We slept like that the whole night, her resting on my chest, my arm around her.

  I’m a little stiff this morning from our position, but it was well worth it.

  “Thanks.” She takes her ponytail out and I watch as the brown strands fall gracefully around her shoulders, only for her to gather it all back up and put it into some crazy bun. “Sorry I fell asleep on you last night.”

  “It’s cool. You were comfortable, and I wasn’t about to wake a sleeping beast.”

  “I’m not a sleeping beast.”

  “That’s what you think.” I wink and then walk up to her where I spot a stray hair and push it behind her ear, the entire time our eyes connected. “Want some breakfast?”

  “I’m starving, so yes.”

  “Okay, come on.” I’m tempted to take her hand in mine but think better of it. I open the door for her and catch the girl in the yellow dress from last night sneaking out of Asher’s room. I stutter-stop, gripping the doorframe of my room, shocked.

  Asher had a girl stay over last night?

  Uhh . . . that’s new.

  When she hears the floorboards creak from where we’re standing, she looks over her shoulder and her face blushes, before she turns away and practically sprints down the stairs.

  “Whose room was that?” Indie asks.

  “Pepps.”

  “Pepps, as in Asher Peppers?”

  “Yup.” I chuckle. “Fuck, I can’t wait to hear how that happened. The dude never has girls stay over.”

  We make our way downstairs and are greeted by whispered yelling.

  I grip Indie by the waist and hold her still, holding a finger to my lips, trying to listen in on who’s in the kitchen.

  “You treat me like a child.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  That’s Hartley’s voice, which means the other voice must be Alice’s.

  “Yes, you do. I’m allowed to drink and have fun, Hartley.”

  “Not under my roof.”

  “Can you not hear yourself? You’re acting like my father.”

  “Yeah, well your father asked me to look out for you and that’s what I’m doing.” He lets out a large sigh and continues, “Now stop fucking yelling at me, because I have such a goddamn headache and your voice is making it worse.”

  “Wow.” Something slams on the counter and Alice pops out of the kitchen, just in time to spot me and Indie. Her face goes red—that’s two girls blushing so far this morning, wonder if there are anymore—and she gives me a short wave.

  “Good morning, Lincoln.”

  I wave back. “Hey Alice. Get a good night’s sleep?”

  “No.” She glances back at Hartley, who is now watching her from the kitchen entryway, arms crossed, his body propped up by the wall. He looks like a wreck. His hair is disheveled and he has dark circles under his eyes. “Your friend, Hartley, kicks in his sleep.”

  “Speak for yourself. Maybe stop rolling every twenty goddamn minutes.”

  “Maybe I was rolling because you kept kicking me.”

  “I was kicking you to stop rolling,” he shoots back. This could go on for hours.

  “I was going to make waffles,” I interject. “Want to stay for some breakfast, Alice?”

  Hartley cuts in before she can answer, his eyes dead set on hers. “Alice was just leaving. Weren’t you, Alice?”

  She bites her bottom lip and says, “Yes, I was just going to walk home. Thank you though, Lincoln.”

  Hartley grumbles in frustration. “You’re not walking home. Grab an Uber.”

  Another bite to her lip. “I don’t have my phone.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Hartley stomps through the living room to the entryway and grabs the keys to his SUV. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

  “I’d rather walk.”

  “You’re not fucking walking. Now come on.” Hartley not so gracefully grabs her by the arm and guides her out to his car.

  When the front door shuts, Indie turns to me and says, “Oh, they are so going to fuck.”

  “Yeah, the boys and I have a bet on when. Trust me, we already know. Those two just don’t know it yet.” I take her hand this time and pull her toward the kitchen. “Come help me make waffles.”

  Indie lifts herself up on the island bench, and I feel her eyes on me as I move around the kitchen, setting up the waffle maker and finding the mix in the pantry.

  Handing her a bowl and the ingredients, I say, “Make the whole box; the boys are always hungry for waffles.”

  “We get first dibs though, right?”

  “First waffle is yours, Mayhem.”

  She hops back off the counter and starts mixing everything together just as there’s a slight crash on the stairs. We both look up to find Scarlett gripping the banister, muttering swear words. Her shirt is inside out, there seems to be an article of clothing in her hand, which I’m assuming is her pants because she’s wearing a pair of Hutton’s sweatpants that are entirely too large on her, her hair is sticking up on all ends, while dark makeup is smudged under her eyes.

  “Fucking steps,” she says just as she looks up and spots me and Indie both staring at her. But instead of a blush, she just gives us a simple, unapologetic wave. “Hey.” Talking directly to Indie, she says, “Multiple orgasms, mission accomplished. See you at the house.”

  I chuckle next to Indie as she calls out, “Want to stay for waffles?”

  “No. I need a shower. I have Hutton’s tongue all over me.” She motions to the two of us and adds, “I do want to hear about this little sleepover, but only after I feel human again. See you at the house.” And then she takes off, leaving just as quickly as she appeared.

  “She’s . . . interesting,” I say.

  “Definitely has zero shame about anything.” Indie stirs the mixture and then hands it to me. She hops back up on the counter and says, “So, about last night.”

  “What about it?” I ask, feeling nausea make its way up my throat. I don’t want her to say something that’s going to take back how great it felt to hold her, have her next to me.

  She smiles and briefly runs her hand through my hair, as if she’s trying to fix it but has no luck. “How did the movie end?”

  Hell. I let out a deep breath and chuckle. “Fuck if I know. I passed out just like you.”

  Christ, I thought she was wanting a deep conversation, and it’s too early for me to navigate through something like that. Especially when I can’t categorize my feelings, while she’s staring at me with those clear, confident eyes of hers.

  “Guess we’ll have to try to finish it sometime.”

  Glancing up with a smirk, I ask, “Breakfast in bed?”

  Her face lights up. “What about the rest of the waffles?”

  “I’ll put the batter in the fridge with a note. The boys can make their own.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “How are you with a knife? There are some rinsed strawberries in the fridge. I’ll man the waffles if you cut some up for us.”

  “Deal.” I set her up with what she needs and just when the waffle maker is ready, Hutton appears in the kitchen, scratching his chest, looking half awake, but also concerned.

  “Hey . . . did, uh, Scarlett take off?”

  Oh hell.

  Indie and I both catch the sound of vulnerability in his voice and we quickly exchange glances, but Indie is the one to answer. “She just left. Said she needed to wash your tongue off her body.”

  He smiles shyly—which is odd for him—and he grips the back of his neck. “Did she seem . . . happy?”

  Oh pathetic, man. So pathetic. But I also feel for him because I seem to be in the same boat. Confused and desperate.

  “She was very pleased with her multiple orgasms.”

  That brings a smile to his face. “Okay, cool.” He then nods at the waffle maker and says, “Making me some?”

  “You can make your own,” I say. “We’re headed back upstairs in a few.”

  “Oh yeah?” Hutton wiggles his eyebrows, and I don’t even bother correcting his assumption. There’s no use.

  Instead, we gather everything we need and take it to my room, where I shut the door and prop my pillows up so we can sit against the headboard.

  Once we’re settled, Indie says, “Quite a party last night.”

  I turn to face her in an attempt to understand what she means, but she’s intent on her food.

  Let’s see. She didn’t slink away like yellow-dress girl, angrily race out the door like Alice, or understandably walk out with a happily sated grin like Scarlett. She willingly came back to my room just now, so she doesn’t seem to regret staying. I think she’s glad she stayed as well.

  Go in with humor, Castle.

  “That it was. But you know there is one thing we shouldn’t do right now.” I wiggle my eyebrows, loving the mischievous smile I receive in return. “Don’t tell the moms,” we both say together, and clink our waffles in a moment of solidarity.

  Chapter Eleven

  INDIE

  “Was that you?” I ask, as my character, Princess Peach, blows up from a bomb hitting her in the back.

  “Can’t be sure,” Lincoln says, humor in his voice as I see Yoshi, his character blow by me.

  “Lincoln,” I complain, nudging him with my elbow and getting Peach up and driving again. “We had a truce.”

  “That was until you were annihilating me. A dude has to save his pride.”

  We’ve been playing Mario Kart in Lincoln’s room for the past hour, playing every tournament, and sharing Chinese food that we ordered for a late lunch, early dinner.

  After breakfast in bed, we stayed there for a few hours, drifting in and out of sleep, me resting on his shoulder, Lincoln combing his hands through my hair—which has got to be the most erotic and relaxing feeling ever. Just knowing his talented, sexy hands are pressing into my scalp is enough to make me drool and beg for more.

  When we woke up, Lincoln didn’t ask if I wanted to leave, but instead asked if I wanted to get some Chinese food and since it’s Sunday, my day off, I figured there was nothing wrong with spending it with Lincoln. We both took quick showers while we waited for the food. I changed into the shorts from earlier and one of his Brentwood Baseball shirts, minus my bra. He changed into an outfit very similar and then teased me about being twins.

  After we finished our food, Lincoln brought out his Nintendo Wii, and we’ve been playing games ever since. It started with Tetris and has moved on. When I asked him why he had a Wii and not an Xbox like every other college guy out there, he said he was a sucker for Mario. It’s why he keeps the console in his room. I thought it was an adorable answer and it made me want to stay with him longer.

  “I’m in first. I swear to God, you better not shoot me with anything,” he says, his body tense next to mine, concentrated on the TV.

  “Uh, okay,” I say, just as I drive through a mystery box. When it gives me three green shells, I swear to the high heavens. Green shells are useless when trying to pass people. You risk shooting them off and then running into your own shell when it bounces off the side.

  The telltale alert of Lincoln crossing the finish line sounds through the speakers. He pumps the air with his fist, tosses his controller, then flops back on the bed.

  “Jesus Christ, I’m sweating.”

  I finish the race, coming in third, and toss my remote as well. I turn to him and take in the way he’s lying next to me so casually, hands linked behind his head, his biceps stretching the fabric of his shirt.

  “I can’t believe you blew me up.”

  “Not even sorry about it.” I turn toward him, making sure I’m scowling my best scowl. He scoots up the bed so he’s against the headboard, ignoring said scowl, so I lean against the wall, then drape my legs over his. “You were getting a free ride and it wasn’t fair.”

  “You were getting the same ride.”

  “Bullshit.” He laughs. “You kept accidentally hitting me with shit.” I smile and he points at me. “See, you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “It’s called playing strategically.”

  His hand falls to my knee and he gives it a squeeze, sending a lightning bolt of lust straight up my inner thigh. “It’s called being a liar.”

  I try not to concentrate on the feeling of his hand on my leg, or the way his thumb is slowly rubbing my kneecap.

  “Call it what you want, but I still beat you.”

  “You’re also aggressive with your elbows.” He lifts his hand from my knee to rub his other arm. “I think I have some bruises from your combative driving.”

  “Poor baby.” I reach out and rub his arm.

  “You hit me lower.” I move my hand. “Lower.” He smiles. “Little bit lower. You actually hit me in the crotch, if you would rub that, I’d appreciate it.”

  “In your dreams, Castle,” I say, even though I’m pretty sure that situation has been a highlight of my dreams.

  Knock. Knock.

  We both look toward the door as Lincoln calls out, “Come in.”

  The door opens and Asher pokes his head through the crack. “Oh shit, sorry, I didn’t realize you had company. I’ll uh, catch you later.”

  “Hey, wait,” Lincoln calls out before Asher can shut the door. “What’s up, man?”

  Asher quickly looks at me, and I realize he probably wants to talk about last night and there’s no way he’ll do that in front of me. The guy is way too shy and way too private.

  “Uh, you know, I should get back home, get ready for the school week,” I say, sensing Asher’s needs.

  “No, you don’t have to do that,” Asher says. “I’ll just talk to Lincoln later.”

  “No, it’s good, really. Just let me gather my things and then I’ll call an Uber.”

  Lincoln settles his hand on my knee and says to Asher, “Let me drop Indie off and then I’ll be back. Does that work?”

  He looks between us, indecisive, but finally he nods. “Yeah, that works. Take your time. No rush.”

  He quietly shuts the door and I turn toward Lincoln. “You are so going to get the details about the girl in the yellow dress.”

  “I would love to spend more time with you, but sorry, Mayhem, this trumps that right now. I’m practically frothing at the mouth to find out what happened.”

  “I would be too.” I hop off the bed and grab my folded-up clothes from last night. “Let me change quickly and then you can take me home.”

  “Don’t bother. Just give me back my clothes another time. I probably have enough Brentwood baseball shirts to outfit the entire women’s soccer team.”

  “Okay.”

  Lincoln stands from the bed, stretches, and then grabs my hand. “Let’s go, Mayhem.”

  Surprisingly, we don’t run into anyone on the way out. I was nervous about seeing Deacon while wearing Lincoln’s clothes, especially the day after a party, but he was MIA, as well as the other guys.

  Lincoln opens the passenger side door for me and then rounds the front and hops in. He starts the engine, grabs the gear shift, and takes off.

  My house is pretty close, so we don’t have much time in the car together. “Thank you for the day. It was probably one of the most relaxing days I’ve had in a really long time.”

  “Me too,” Lincoln says, keeping his eyes focused on the road. “I had a really good time, even if you’re a liar and a cheater.”

  “See it how you want, but I’m sticking to what I said. It was strategy.”

  “Brutal, Mayhem.” He stops at a stop sign, and then turns right. It might be a weird thing to say, but I love watching him drive. He’s so casual—relaxed—one hand slung over the steering wheel, the other gripping the gear shift, his feet moving back and forth over the pedals. It’s sexy, and when he offered to drive me home, I didn’t even put up a fight, because I wanted to see him in his Jeep again. I wanted to spend extra time with him. “Are you getting excited about your first game this coming Saturday? It’s a home game, right?”