“Hey. What’s wrong?” Nash’s humour faded and he bypassed my every defence, dropping an arm around my shoulders before I could evade him. Not that I wanted to evade him. Nash’s inked and ripped arm was some kind of perfect. He had muscles on muscles that were somehow lean and brawny at the same time, and he smelled of guitars and fuckin’ marshmallows or some shit. And he smelled of her. These sexy motherfuckers. They pushed every button I had without even trying.
