Page 5 of Quarantine Crush
“Definitely,” I say, the words far huskier than I’d like. “Let me take that from you.” I reach for one of his bags, but he steps back, his arm falling from my shoulders.
“Nice try, Emy. You’re trying to get a leg up on the competition. It’s killing you not to know what kind of delicious torture I have in this bag, isn’t it?” He grins nefariously, taunting me with his bag and pulling a laugh from me.
“Damn. Foiled again,” I joke, snapping my fingers.
“I knew it,” Knox exclaims. “Sorry, Hess. Not gonna happen. So, why don’t you just point me in the direction you want me, and I’ll put it up. Besides, I can’t have you telling the dads that I made you do all the heavy lifting.”
Our dads have been best friends for so long they’ve simply become “the dads” to the rest of us. I laugh and shake my head before pointing to the couch.
“The apartment may be amazing, but its one downside is the lack of a guest bedroom. I’m afraid you’re couch surfing while you’re here.”
He looks at the red sofa dubiously, and I bite back a grin, knowing he’s thinking there’s no way his massive body will fit comfortably. Knox has always been tall, but gone is the gangly teen of my memories. Time has been good to him, and he’s finally filled out his over six feet tall frame. I watch the muscles bunch across his back and arms as he tosses his bag next to the couch.
He turns back to me, stretching, and I stifle a groan as his shirt lifts, revealing a small line of muscled abs and a tantalizing trail of hair between thick muscles that make smart girls stupid.
“What kind of bed are you rocking in there?” he asks, nodding toward my bedroom door. “Maybe we can share. You know, for old times’ sake?”
He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and all of the saliva dries up in my mouth, causing me to choke.
“Pretty sure the dads banned us from sharing a bed when I turned thirteen,” I wheeze.
His brows furrow, and he crosses the room to pat me on the back.
“You okay, Em?”
“Huh?” I ask, having a hard time concentrating with his hand rubbing soothing circles on my back. “I’m fine. Just need something to drink. Can I get you anything?”
He grins, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.
“It’s like you can still read my mind. I was just going to ask what a jet-lagged guy has to do to get a drink around here.”
“Well then, you’re in luck. Bar’s this way,” I say, motioning for him to follow me into the kitchen. “Milk stout still your favorite?”
“Hell yeah, it is.” He takes the beer I offer, looking impressed. “What did I ever do to deserve such a badass bestie?”
I flip my hair, doing my damndest to joke with him like the old Embry would, and feign modesty. “Guess you got lucky.”
My words ring in my own ears, and my cheeks heat at the innuendo because damn if that’s not exactly what I’m hoping for. Knox laughs and takes a swig of his beer while I pour myself a glass of wine.
“Now that we have our beverages, are you ready to taste sometrulydespicable snacks?” Knox asks.
“You’re on, Jacobs,” I laugh, moving farther into the kitchen to where I stashed my bag earlier today. I pull it from the cabinet and dangle it in front of his face. “I’m feeling awfully optimistic about this round.”
Knox laughs and follows me into the living room. I pull one of the throw pillows from the couch and toss it onto the floor next to my coffee table before hiding my bag next to me. Knox grabs his bag before plopping down on a pillow of his own across from me.
“Same rules as always?” he asks.
I grin and nod my agreement. When Knox first moved to London, he had a hard time adjusting to the different foods and snacks there. I, of course, used that knowledge as an opportunity to hassle him. He’d retaliated by sending me a care package of the worst British snacks he could find. Never one to be outdone, I’d scoured Chinatown for weird treats of my own, and our game was born.
“I think you’re in for somethingtrulyinteresting with this one,” Knox says.
The sound of a bag crinkling reaches my ears seconds before Knox hands me a potato chip. It doesn’t look like anything spectacular, so I shrug and pop it into my mouth. The artificial fishy taste coats my tongue, and the disgusted look on my face has Knox howling with laughter.
“Why?” I cry, taking a giant gulp of my wine. It does nothing to remove the taste, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust. “Who would want fish-flavored chips?”
“I believe you mean Prawn Cocktail,” he says, placing the pink bag of chips on the table. “You should know that they also have roasted chicken and Worcester sauce flavors.”
My brows rise as I take in the words100% British Potatoes!written on the front of the bag. I shake my head before pulling my own offering from my sack.
