The Ex Versus the Non-Boyfriend
THE NEXT MORNING, HILARIE woke up in Eric’s arms. On his—bare—chest. Jesus. She was tempted to trace the lines of his six-pack. Timothy had been fit, but he hadn’t looked like a Calvin Klein ad after the Photoshop.
“Jerk,” she whispered, but there was no venom in her voice. He’d mocked her house and bed, but he also hadn’t uttered a word when she’d ruined his shirt with her tears and snot, and had fed her pizza with her favorite toppings—chicken and mushrooms. And he was here, another soul in the house to distract her from the fact that she was its sole inhabitant. She poked his arm. “Eric.”
“Hmm,”he said with his eyes still closed.
“We should get ready for school.”
He yawned. “Fine.” Then he put on his white tank top and stood up. “Okay, ready.”
She
