What Are Friends For?. Naomi Horton
against his arm for a fleeting moment. “Go take a shower—a cold shower. I’ll make some breakfast.”
In spite of himself, Conn had to grin. Straightening, he reached out and caught her by the hand as she started to step away. “Why don’t you come with me? Hell, darlin’, it’s been twelve years since we shared a shower. There are worse ways to start a morning.”
“You’re pushing your luck, Devlin,” she replied mildly, planting her outstretched fingers in the middle of his chest and holding him firmly at bay.
He smiled down at her, wondering what he’d ever done to deserve a woman like this in his life. Even at arm’s length, she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. “If I’d had any damn sense at all, I’d have married you eleven years ago instead of Liza,” he said half-seriously.
She hesitated for just a split second, an odd expression crossing her face. Then she smiled carelessly. “And ruin a perfectly good friendship, Devlin? We nearly did that by sleeping together that weekend up at Mount Baker. Remember?”
“Oh, I remember,” he said with a growl.
“And if you remember all of it, we agreed that our friendship was more important than sex. And that—”
“Spectacular sex,” he amended straight-faced. “We did agree it was pretty spectacular sex, Andie.”
“Yes, all right, spectacular sex.” She was trying not to laugh. “But we agreed that good friends are harder to find than lovers, remember. Even good lovers.”
“Great lovers, even,” he agreed blandly.
“Great?” She looked pleasantly surprised. “You really thought I was—?” She caught herself abruptly. Shrugging offhandedly, she stepped past him, avoiding his eyes. “Go take a shower, Devlin.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Grinning, he headed for the kitchen door. “And yeah, you were great. Once we got past all the virginal inhibitions, darlin’, you were—”
“Censor that,” she said quickly, suddenly very busy rummaging through the refrigerator. “Eggs...bread... How about French toast for breakfast?”
“I’m easy.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Feel free to take advantage of it.”
“You wish.”
Sometimes, Conn found himself thinking, glancing at her with an unexpected twinge of wistfulness. Sometimes I do wish, darlin’....
But he couldn’t say it aloud, of course. Not to his best friend.
Two
Staying there—setting the glass-topped rattan table in the big sun room off the kitchen, making French toast, pouring orange juice—was one of the hardest things Andie had ever done.
Every instinct she had was telling her to run. To hide. To shut herself up in her apartment and pull the covers over her head and simply die of mortification.
One touch—that’s all it had taken. One touch and she’d all but melted in his arms like overheated taffy, as pliant and eager as any teenager. Where she’d found the strength to push him away, she’d never know. Because she hadn’t wanted to. All she’d wanted was for him to strip her out of her jeans and ease her down onto the floor and make love to her as though his very life depended on it.
Shoving a handful of tangled hair off her forehead, she took a deep breath and wet her lips, closing her eyes for a calming minute. It was all right. She could handle this.
The secret was to stay cool and simply pretend it had meant nothing. Nothing at all.
Conn wasn’t drunk, but he’d had more to drink than normal. He’d been hurting, vulnerable, off balance—all alien emotions for a man who prided himself on his pragmatic and levelheaded approach to life. She’d been there, warm and female and reassuringly familiar. His best friend, his confidant, the one person who probably knew him better than anyone. What more normal thing to do than reach for her, seeking to put his world right again through the comforting rituals of lovemaking?
Odds were that he wouldn’t even remember the incident in a day or two.
So no harm had been done.
As long as she kept the whole incident in perspective, she reminded herself grimly. As long as she didn’t try to delude herself into believing that Conn, with blinding insight that had eluded him for twelve years, had suddenly recognized that she was the only woman for him.
Feeling more in control, she added a few drops of vanilla and a sprinkle of sugar to the cream and eggs, then started beating them with a wire whisk. It was time, she told herself calmly. In three weeks, she was going to be thirty years old. Too old to still believe in miracles. It was time she shook herself free of Conn once and for all and got on with her life, because she would be damned if she was going to turn into one of those silly calf-eyed women who waits and waits and waits...and then one day wakes up to realize that an entire lifetime has slipped by and her dreams have turned to dust.
The French toast had cooked to a deep golden brown by the time Andie heard the shower go off. A couple of minutes later Conn padded into the kitchen in a waft of soap-scented steam, cleanly shaven and barefoot, dressed in a ragged old pair of denim cutoffs and nothing else. He was still fit and lean, she noticed idly, his shoulders still solid, belly still flat and hard. And he could still make her heart give that silly little leap with just one lazy grin.
Ignoring it, she simply smiled. “You look almost human again. Feel better?”
“Actually, I feel like a damned fool,” he muttered. Walking across to her, he bent down to give her a chaste—and chastened—peck on the cheek. “Sorry. I don’t know what the hell I thought I was doing, grabbing you like that. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
As she knew all too well, Andie thought wearily. “Forget it, Devlin,” she told him easily. “You’re a man. Men do stupid things all the time. It’s what makes you so endearing.” Refusing to think about it, she slid three thick slices of French toast onto a warmed plate and handed it to him. “Eat this. You still look a little rough around the edges.”
“Feel a little rough around the edges.” Grinning, he took the plate and padded into the sun room, raking his fingers through his wet hair. “I still can’t believe I had the brass to haul you out of bed and all the way out here just because I was feeling sorry for myself.”
“You’re allowed,” she replied casually, carrying her own plate across to the table and sitting down. “Most of the time you’re an intelligent, competent businessman with a solid grasp on his life and destiny. I figure you’re entitled to one night of generalized stupidity, all considered. Just don’t make a habit of it.”
Conn winced slightly. “Point taken. Still friends?”
“Forever.” She said it easily, the ritual as old as their friendship.
Conn just nodded, prodding the French toast thoughtfully. He’d been thinking about Andie in the shower—a few salacious thoughts, granted, but it had been more than that. Thinking about how she was always there for him, about how he sometimes just took for granted that all he had to do was shout and she’d be there, calm and collected and in control.
“You, uh...” He looked at her thoughtfully. “You didn’t really have someone with you when I called tonight, did you?”
Andie stared at him, fork halfway to her mouth. “What a question to ask!”
“You would tell me, wouldn’t you? If you were getting serious about someone?”
“It’s the strangest thing....” Andie cocked her head slightly, as though listening to something. “I could swear I hear my mother. Didn’t that