“Ah,” Claire said knowingly. “The old upper hand.”
“I have to have it,” I insisted, wondering how many calories were in a can of frosting and deciding not to look. Instead I put the cap back on and stuck it in the fridge.
“I know you do. You are the master of the upper hand.”
“The mistress,” I corrected, and the thought of myself as a dominatrix made me giggle. “I need a whip.”
“Totally. Maybe you could tie him up and punish him for turning you down again.”
“Ha! He would deserve it.” I thought for a moment as I stared at the refrigerator where he’d pinned me without actually touching me. “Problem is, I think he’s the upper hand type too.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I just feel like he’s good at taking control, at getting people right where he wants them.”
She laughed again. “And where does he want you?”
“He says he wants to be friends.”
“Friends?”
“Friends. But fuck that. I’m not going to be his friend,” I said stubbornly.
“OK.”
“I’m going to ignore him until he goes away.”
“Good plan. That always works when you have a crush on someone.”
“I don’t have a crush on him!”
“No, no. I’m sorry, sweetie. Of course you don’t.”
I sighed as I turned off the kitchen light and headed down the hall to my bedroom. “But I can’t stop thinking about him. Why is that?”
“Well, what if it’s fate? I mean, what if there’s even an underlying reason he came back to town? What if it was his destiny to live in your house? What if he’s your soul mate, your one tr—”
“Claire,” I interrupted loudly. “Repeat after me. There is no such thing as a soul mate. Or destiny. Or one true love. I just want to bang him, not ride off into the sunset on his horse. And I’m annoyed he’s not cooperating.”
She clucked her tongue. “You have zero sense of romance.”
“What’s the point? Even in books, all great love stories end in tragedy. Why should real life be any different?”
Now it was Claire’s turn to sigh. “You know what? I’m beginning to think you might be right.”
It should have made me feel good that she’d finally agreed with me, that I was right, that I was good at my job—selling ideas to people—but somehow it didn’t.
It took me a long time to fall asleep that night, imagining him beneath me. (And I do mean right beneath me.)
Even a realist has to dream sometimes.
Six
JAIME
The next morning I heard the front door open and shut at an absurdly early hour for a Saturday. For one foggy moment, I was concerned about an intruder until I remembered Quinn. I bet he gets up early and goes to the gym, I thought, snuggling deeper under the covers. Fuck that noise.
But I couldn’t get back to sleep. Instead, I lay there thinking about his sweaty body, muscles flexing, breathing hard, until I finally couldn’t stand it, grabbed my vibrator, and got myself off.