My Cone and Only (King Family #1) - Susannah Nix Page 0,12

of his name. I supposed free ice cream was a powerful aphrodisiac.

I walked back to the couch with a spoon and a pint of Thar She Blows! bubblegum ice cream. “Here, this is for your face.”

Wyatt had closed his eyes again, but he opened his good one to squint at me, and his lip curled when he saw the ice cream I was holding out. “What the hell?”

“You don’t have any ice cubes or frozen peas, so this is what you get.” I sat next to him and set the ice cream on his knee.

He took it reluctantly and pressed it to his cheekbone with a wince before his head swiveled toward me. “You don’t have to stay or anything. I’ll be okay.”

“I don’t mind staying.” I leaned back on his ugly thrift store couch, thumping the spoon against my leg. “If you did give yourself a concussion and you die of a brain bleed in your sleep, I’ll never forgive myself.”

His lips twitched. “Are you saying you’d actually miss me if I died?”

I knew he was kidding, but it wasn’t funny to me. Not when he gave me so many reasons to worry about him. “You know I’d be devastated, right?”

The smile slid off his face and his hand fumbled for mine, tangling our fingers together. “I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to worry about me.”

I did worry about him, pretty much constantly. I worried that he drank too much and smoked too much weed. I worried about his penchant for making reckless decisions and getting into fights. I worried that he never seemed to take anything seriously. I worried that his carefree slacker attitude was just an act to hide the fact that he was aimless and miserable. And I hated that he slept around so much, not just because I was jealous—although there was definitely that—but because it felt like he was intentionally denying himself a chance to be loved.

I didn’t say any of that though. He wouldn’t listen, and anyway he was probably too drunk right now to remember. Instead, I squeezed his hand and hoped that would be enough.

“I’m sorry I puked,” he said.

“It’s okay,” I told him. “Just let me know if you’re gonna do it again so I can get out of the way.”

He smiled, his eyes soft and slightly unfocused. “Remember that time you decided to drink all those B-52s a few years ago?”

“Not very well, no.” That had been one of my more epic bad decisions. Some friends—including Wyatt—had taken me out to celebrate my twenty-third birthday, and I’d gotten a little carried away with the shots.

“I drove you home and had to help you into the bathroom.” His thumb stroked over my wrist absently.

“I’m still sorry about that.” And still plenty embarrassed. Part of the reason I’d downed so many shots that night was to work up enough liquid courage to finally make my move with Wyatt. But I’d misjudged my tolerance and shot myself in the foot by getting sloppy drunk, thereby killing any chance of a romantic end to the evening.

“Your head kept falling forward, and I had to hold it up for you so it didn’t fall into the toilet.”

I grimaced in embarrassment. “Lovely.”

He leaned forward to set the ice cream on the laminate coffee table. When he leaned back, his head lolled toward me again. “You got vomit on your shirt, and I had to change you into a clean one before I put you to bed.”

“I never knew you did that.” Jesus. No wonder he’d never found me sexy. I didn’t know what was worse, the fact that Wyatt had undressed me under such revolting circumstances, or that I couldn’t even remember it. I suspected he’d withheld that part of the story to save me further embarrassment. He probably wouldn’t have told me now if he hadn’t been so drunk himself.

He looked down at our clasped hands, and his eyes narrowed as they focused on my wrist. Frowning, he pulled my arm into his lap and ran his callused fingers over the red mark that was turning into a bruise. “That fucking asshole. I wish to god I hadn’t been drunk so I could’ve made him eat all his teeth.”

Wyatt was a tactile, affectionate person, and he’d touched me casually a million times before. But something about the way his fingers were stroking my arm felt too intimate. Dangerous. Too close to the way I wanted him to touch me, which wasn’t casual at