“You snore.”
I chuckle at that because I don’t doubt it. I turn to look at him, noticing the stubble of his jaw and lips. I wonder if he’ll shave it soon or leave the few days of growth. Why I’m wondering that at all, I have no fucking clue. But I also notice his very pink, plump lips in the middle of that facial hair. They’re pretty.
And that’s another weird thought this morning.
I can’t remember any time I’ve ever stared at a man’s lips before, but they’re really pretty. That’s the only way to describe them.
“Why the hell are you staring at me?” He raises a brow, confusion on his face, and yeah, I guess it is a little weird.
I deflect again, “You hungover?”
He groans his answer, “I think if I move, I’ll puke.”
“Amateur,” I joke and punch him in the arm.
“Oh, fuck.” He covers his arm with his hand and then groans again. “What part of ‘If I move, I’ll puke’ do you not understand?”
“I don’t see any puke,” I say as I hop out of bed, and he glares up at me with angry, bloodshot eyes.
“How did you just hop up out of bed like that?”
“I have more practice at this. You were busy studying in high school. Not me,” I say proudly, and he snorts a laugh.
“Clearly.” His eyes roam over my body slowly, and heat creeps up my spine all the way to my ears, though, not from embarrassment. No. I’m nowhere near ashamed of my body. I’m heated from something else as he peruses every muscle. “Can you put some damn clothes on?”
He’s cranky this morning, but that’s not really different from the usual Travis Wyatt experience.
“What’s the matter, Trav? Like what you see?” I tease, wiggling my ass as I make my way over to my dresser and pull out a pair of sweats.
“Nope. Just nauseous.”
“Yeah right. You know I’m hot.” I tug my sweats on and turn around to face him, but he’s no longer checking me out. His arm is draped over his eyes as he lies flat on his back. I’m not sure why I’m disappointed, but I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m feeling.
That’s weird.
“Get up, Trav. I’m going to cure that hangover.”
“No. Go away,” he moans as I flop onto the bed at his feet.
“Not happening. Come on. I’m going to go take a piss, and then I’m going to make you my hangover cure.”
“Please tell me you’re going to wash your hands.”
“Why would I do that?” I ask, and he drops his arm to give me a disgusted look. I laugh, “I’m fucking with you. I’m not an animal. Get up.”
“I don’t want to.” He tries to bury his face in his arm again, but I stand up, grab my pillow, and hit him with it.
“You fucker.” He sits up, trying to kill me with his eyes, but at least I got him up.
“Meet me in the kitchen.” I wink at him and go to the bathroom to take care of business before washing my hands and then heading into the kitchen.
Travis looks like death, sitting at the small kitchen table I found on a curb in front of a house a couple of blocks away. They threw out a perfectly good table. I sanded that fucker and painted it, and now it’s a gorgeous table, if I do say so myself.
I’m crafty as hell.
I whistle as I make my way to the stove, pulling out my favorite frying pan and making quite a racket but not on purpose. Those fuckers just make a lot of noise.
“Jesus. Fuck, Oakley,” Travis groans, putting his head in his hands while his elbows rest on my table.
“Sorry.”
“I just need some coffee,” he says, his voice all raspy. My cock, that’s still a little hard from this morning, even after taking a piss, takes notice of that rasp and apparently likes it.
Yeah, that’s really fucking weird.
Huh. Maybe I’m more hungover than I thought.
Or maybe I’m just really horny. It’s been a while since I got laid. I should probably take care of that soon.
“Coffee, yes. Water. Also yes.” I turn on the burner under the frying pan, then pull out bacon and eggs from the fridge. “But Oakley’s hangover sandwich is what you really need.”
“Don’t talk about food,” he says quietly, still in that damn raspy tone that does something to me.
What the hell?
I try to shake it off as I get started on breakfast, frying the bacon first. The smell hits my nose instantly, and my stomach grumbles. I brew the coffee and get Travis some water.
I place the glass of water in front of him, but he doesn’t move. Poor bastard.
I finish the bacon and make toast before cracking the eggs in the pan and frying them up. When the coffee is done, I pour us both a cup and bring them to the table. Then I work on my masterpiece.
Once I’ve piled the greasy eggs and bacon on the toast, I put both sandwiches on plates and bring them to the table, sitting down across from Travis.
“I think I’m dying,” he says as he drops his arms to his sides and stares at the sandwich.
“Nope. Just hungover. Trust me. Take a bite. Then some water and sips of coffee.”
He shakes his head slowly, not going for the sandwich. “Oakley.” He sounds defeated as his tired eyes meet mine. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
I smile and shake my head, taking a massive bite and chewing it carefully. Then I answer him, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I’m kind of an asshole,” he says cautiously, which makes me chuckle and take another bite, chewing it, then taking a drink of coffee to swallow it down.
“No kind of about it.”
He raises one hand to show me his middle finger, then drops it back down.
“Eat.” I nod toward his sandwich, knowing it’ll make him feel better. “And I’m nice to you because we’re friends.” He starts to argue, but I shake my head quickly and continue, “And you’re Jameson’s best friend. I’m Garrison’s best friend.” I use their first names because I know the whole last-name thing drives him crazy. “And I’m pretty sure those two are getting married.”
He actually smiles at that. “So we’re going to be around each other a lot.”
“Exactly.” I point at his sandwich again. “Eat.”
He groans but then finally picks up the sandwich, examining it way too closely. “I’m going to puke if I eat this.”
I shrug. “Maybe. That’s kind of the magic of the sandwich. You’ll either puke and feel better, or it’ll soak up the excess alcohol, and you’ll feel better. Win, win.”
He studies the sandwich more and then seems to finally decide to just go with it, taking the world’s smallest bite and chewing. “That’s really good.”
I grin and take another bite of mine. “Oakley’s hangover cure. It always works.”
He takes another small bite and washes it down with water. “You know, having a hangover cure at nineteen probably means you have a bit of a problem.”
I finish off my sandwich and lean back in my chair, my hand rubbing over my now-full belly. His eyes track the movement, and I don’t know why, but I like it.
He manages to pull his eyes back to my face and grumbles something that sounds like wearing a shirt would be good.