Chapter 2
TWO
Paxton
While I take a long swig of my beer, I witness Hartford’s brown eyes widen to a point I didn’t realize was humanly possible.
“Excuse me?” Her expression resembles a scene straight out of a classic sitcom where reactions are larger than life.
“First, can you please blink or at least stop staring at me with your eyes so wide, it’s freaking me out.” I take another sip of beer, waiting for her to comply.
After what feels like an eternity, she blinks. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t need your help.”
I raise an eyebrow as she crosses her arms. “You don’t need it or you don’t want it?”
“Paxton, that’s not the kind of relationship we have.”
Her auburn locks frame her face, a soft halo that accentuates her features, and I find myself captivated by the radiance in her light-brown eyes, which seem to sparkle with every smile.
I’m well aware our relationship isn’t sexual, but the need to help her, to ease the overwhelmed aura around her, overlooks that part.
She’s always had my back, just like I’ve always had hers, even if she didn’t know.
It started in elementary school. She was more interested in climbing trees and playing soccer than wearing dresses and playing with dolls. The other girls constantly teased her about being a tomboy and hanging out with the boys.
So, I stepped in and struck a deal with the mean girls and told them if they started being nice to her, I would let them play with the boys too. Worked like a charm. Hartford made new friends, and the teasing stopped, all without her ever knowing.
Middle school brought on a new challenge.
The boys took notice of Hartford, but not in a cute, flirtatious way.
It was more like they were auditioning for the role of bullies in a teen movie.
They put her phone number on the wall of the bathroom, drew inappropriate pictures and stuck them in her locker, anything to get under her skin.
She didn’t want to tell on them for fear it would get worse, so I took it into my own hands.
When I caught Travis Shaw shoving a picture into her locker, I threatened to beat his ass if he didn’t stop.
My role as Hartford’s secret protector worked until our freshman year of high school.
That’s when Hartford morphed from tomboy-next-door to knockout. Her long legs, slender waist, and bountiful tits seemed to appear overnight.
I remember my older brother, Shepherd, standing beside me and saying, “Damn, you’re gonna have some competition keeping your best friend to yourself.”
That’s when I noticed everyone staring at her. Girls were wide-eyed and guys were drooling. Shep was right, I would have competition, but I wasn’t going down without a fight.
I wanted her and not just as my best friend. And not just because of her looks. It’s always been easy between us. She’s the most real human I’ve ever known.
However, she went on date after date, had boyfriend after boyfriend, all while I faked a smile with each story she told me.
When I finally got the balls to tell her how I felt, she was dating some asshole. So, I kept my mouth shut, and realized she’d friend zoned me, and I haven’t ever tried getting out because I rely on her in my life too much.
What if we ruined everything?
So I watched from afar, the silent protector, ready to swoop in before anyone could hurt her.
Hartford never knew the truth about why I got into so many fights. She thought I had a short fuse, or football was stressing me out.
“I know that’s not the kind of relationship we have. But, no offense, I have a lot more experience in this than you,” I say, lifting a brow.
She shakes her head with a slight roll of her eyes. “When’s the last time you had a girlfriend?”
“I don’t need a girlfriend, Hart. I’ve got you.” I hop off the counter and wrap my arm around her, kissing the top of her head.
“Pax, I love you, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Hearing her say she loves me always sends a jolt to my system, but I humbly remind myself she only means as a friend.
She moves out of my hold and walks into the living room, plopping down on the light-blue sofa and holding a yellow pillow against herself.
I sit down next to her and she rests her head on my shoulder.
She does this often. So often that I think nothing of it. I know that when she does it, it’s because she’s either tired or deep in thought.
Right now, I know what it is.
“Hart, stop overthinking. We’ve been friends forever.
You’re the only constant in my life. Don’t think of me helping as crossing a line.
Think of it as your best friend helping you write the best article possible.
” I wrap my arm around her and hug her closer to my side.
“Because that’s all it is. Nothing more. ”
She keeps staring at the TV even though it’s not turned on.
She’s processing. She does this a lot. I’m more the type to talk about everything and she’s the type to have a silent conversation with herself.
I used to push her to say it all out loud, but after dozens of fights, I’ve learned to just let her do it her way.
She turns her head and peers up at me. “I need a little time to think about it, okay?”
“I completely understand,” I say, but my heart does this weird flippity-flop thing in my chest at the thought of exploring BDSM with her.
“Fine, I’ll let you know. Now, please talk about something else.”
“Have you seen Harrison’s got a new pistachio latte at Pour Some Sugar On Me?”
Hartford hums slowly. “And February didn’t even tell me.”
I shrug. “You’ll have to stop by and try it. So delicious.”
We fall back into our easy banter, and for a moment the BDSM topic is forgotten, but I can’t help but secretly wonder if I’m making a good decision by offering my help. What if I can’t control my feelings for her?
What if I ruin our friendship?