Perfect Perry by Carla Ryan

Author:Carla Ryan [Ryan, Carla]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, Artist
Publisher: ButterflyTattoo
Published: 2018-08-03T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

“Hello? Perry?”

Mike’s voice stabs into my consciousness, and I reel back from Zinnia’s hold. This time I do fall.

“Perry? You back there?” he calls, his footsteps almost in the room.

“In here,” Zinnia calls, reaching out to help me up. I can only stare up at her with terror in my heart. We almost kissed. Is she going to tell him?

She frowns, and adds, “Your girlfriend is taking a nap on a rather uncomfortable bed.”

Girlfriend. She’s not going to rat me out. I let out a breath of relief — although I can’t deny that a part of me wishes she would.

“Nap?” Mike appears in the doorway and sees me sprawled out on the boxes. “No, that can’t be my girlfriend. She doesn’t even stop to eat.” He holds up my white lunch box that I must have forgotten to bring with me that morning.

Coming over to stand beside Zinnia, he offers a hand as well. Seeing them side by side fills me with guilt. They’re both good people — I don’t want to hurt either of them.

What am I doing?

“Come on, lazy bones,” he says, grabbing both hands and pulling me up. Once I’m upright, he tugs me off balance again and into a dip, so I’m held up only by his arms.

“What’s —”

He cuts me off with a hard, passionate kiss. I can’t even begin to describe how awkward I feel, and am beyond relieved when his lips finally leave mine and he swings me back up.

“See?” he says with a grin. “I don’t care when you are all sweaty.”

Zinnia’s somehow slipped past us, and is now exiting the room. I long to follow her, to tell her that I’m sorry, but instead I force a smile.

“Oh,” I say, remembering the other night. “That’s what that was about, huh?”

His self-satisfied grin widens, and he picks up my lunch box. “I figured you wouldn’t notice that you left this — or that it’s currently well past lunchtime.”

“Thank you.” I take it from him and head for the hallway. “I’ll see you at home around six.”

“I’m not back at the store until tomorrow,” he says, following me. “Want another pair of hands for a few hours?”

Zinnia’s in the kitchen, making herself a sandwich. She doesn’t look up when we enter the room.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” I say. “We —”

“I don’t mind,” says Zinnia, smiling gently. “We could use the help. My arms are already spaghetti. I’m not used to lifting anything heavier than my portfolio.”

“Perfect,” he says, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “What can I move with my very unspaghetti-like arms?”

Zinnia chuckles at his horrible Arnold Schwarzenegger accent, and I can’t help laughing either. The tension eases, and the three of us spend a surprisingly pleasant afternoon cleaning out the other bedroom closet. I almost forget about the love triangle I’ve created.

Almost.

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