Boys Like You

It wasn’t like it was a date or anything, and I wasn’t sure if she knew that. I decided as I took the first step off the porch I was going to have to set Monroe straight on that point.

/> Technically, I still had a girlfriend. And even though I had decided sometime in the night—most likely between the twentieth and thirtieth pathetic, drunken text I had received from Rachel—that I was gonna call it quits as soon as she got back from the cottage, this thing with Monroe still wasn’t a date.

I yanked on the passenger door, slid in beside her, and was immediately hit with the smell of…summer. Fresh, sweet summer.

I glanced at her in surprise, noticed that her hair was down, and again was hit with summer…and something else. Something heavier. Something I had no name for, but man, it was nice.

“Hey,” I said, clearing my throat because suddenly there was a frog the size of a baseball lodged in my throat.

God, you smell good.

“Hey yourself,” she replied as she reversed the car into a three-point turn. Once she had maneuvered the vehicle back down the driveway and turned right onto the road, she cleared her throat. “And just so you know? This isn’t a date or anything. I don’t date boys like you.”

Okay, that got my attention, hard and fast. I glanced at her. I let my eyes roll over the mint-green halter top that did nothing to hide the curves this girl had. Her legs were smooth, trim, and athletic, and from where I was sitting, the white skirt she had on was on the short side. Hell yeah, was it ever. Her toes were painted green to match the halter top, her feet slipped into casual sandals.

At least the girl was practical when it came to shoes. Good to know. The last time I had taken Rachel to a music festival in the neighboring parish, she’d worn these four-inch platform things that (a) looked ugly as shit, and (b) hurt her feet so badly that I had to listen to her complain for freaking hours.

Shit. When Rachel and I had first started dating, it was all about being together—just hanging out at my place and getting to know each other. But the last year was more about how we looked when we were out together, and that got pretty old after a while. I wasn’t sure what had changed, but there had been a time when Rachel was a lot of fun.

Or maybe it was me who had changed.

I pushed all thoughts of Rachel away and snuck a peek at Monroe.

Her hair was a mess of inky-black waves, and those eyes were as interesting as I remembered—so light they appeared almost clear—and her mouth…

Bingo.

This might not be a date, but she sure as hell was dressed for one.

My gaze rested there, on that perfect, lush, and glossy mouth, for a heartbeat—maybe longer. No girl put on that glossy shit and let her hair down unless she wanted to look good. And smell good.

I smiled.

She scowled and arched an eyebrow.

“A guy like me?” I settled back in my seat, indicating that she turn left. This would be good, I thought. “Should I be insulted?” I continued, thinking that I kinda sorta was.

“Don’t take it personally, Romeo, but you’re not my type,” she said, a hint of rasp in her voice, as if there was something caught in her throat. Words, maybe?

“You have a type?”

“Don’t you?” she shot back.

I shrugged but didn’t answer.

“I’ll bet your type is tall, blond, and tanned, but then, what do I know?”

That annoyed me. Mostly because she was right. But hey, in my defense, Rachel was a good time in addition to being real easy on the eyes, and she rocked a string bikini like no one’s business. At least she used to. Hell, I’m sure she still did, it’s just not something I noticed anymore.

She still wanted to drink and smoke weed and party, and I didn’t. Not with her and not with anyone else.

“And you think this because…” I glared at her.

She made another weird sound, and I noticed that she gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked, eyes straight ahead on the road.

Shit. This was going to make me look bad. I could lie but that really wasn’t my thing.