I have too many questions, and I hate that he always leaves me with those questions and annoyance.
And oftentimes embarrassment that I did something wrong. Maybe I’m the shiny thing he’s tempted to grab only to realize it’s tarnished when he gets up close.
I self-consciously tuck my hair back when he sighs and continues opening the door. He walks across the hall, scans his card over his door, and opens it.
I look down the hallway.
It’s empty.
“I’m sorry.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “That wasn’t why I came over. I’m—just, I’m sorry.”
“That’s what every girl wants to hear after getting kissed.” I glare. “That you’re sorry it happened.”
“That’s not what I said—”
I slam my door and slide to the carpeting. This really can’t happen again. I won’t make it through without committing murder, and I’m too young for prison. What is with him? It’s not like we’re friends crossing a line. We’re enemies trying to survive, who happen to kiss like the world’s on fire.
My head falls back against the door in a slow thunk. “Whatever,” I say to myself and get up, then look over at the couch. The blanket’s on the floor.
The documentary is still on.
And I wish he was still there too.
Something’s wrong with me because I’m falling for him all over again, and all he did was kiss me and remind me why I fell for him in the first place.
How easy it was to be with him, how fun and entertaining it was to throw him off his game, how great it was to challenge him.
But now I have nothing.
I turn off the lights in the living room and make my way toward the master. Sleep doesn’t find me for a long time. When I close my eyes, I see his smile and feel his kiss.
And I hate him all over again.
Damn stapler.
Chapter Seven
Jack
I’m an idiot.
The biggest idiot in the world.
I throw a pillow over my face and wonder if it would be better if someone just held it down and put me out of my misery.
I’ve never been pissed about having a good memory until this moment. I brushed my teeth seven times last night and still tasted her—it was so damn good that I want to curse.
The way she moved against me was so erotically painful that I wondered if I should just rip the shorts from her body and say fuck it.
But it was hormones, right?
I mean, I like her, she makes me laugh, and she’s annoyingly pretty and annoying all at once, but a one-night stand with my partner, the other intern, just sounds like the worst idea ever, even though my body was like yes, best idea, do it, do it, we want it.
And now I’m hard again.
I jump out of bed and awkwardly walk with a baseball bat between my legs toward the shower. When I get there, I stare down at my dick and almost hear it say, oh hey there, was getting ready for a fun night. You suck. I like her. Eat shit.
“Cold it is.” I turn it as cold as possible, jump in, and curse her all over again.
It wouldn’t have been fair to her.
To have sex with her just because it felt good, just because I’ve had a crush on her for a super long time, right? I mean, we’re different people now.
Why the hell am I even doing the honorable thing? Aren’t guys in their twenties supposed to be complete manwhores? And here I am trying to be nice, and she gets pissed.
Last time I rejected us because I was scared, worried, take your pick… oh also, yeah, pissed.
This time, I was just… trying to be a man.
“Yeah, and look how that worked out. She slammed the door in our face.” Fuck, I’m literally staring at my dick and talking to it like it’s my best friend when all it did was betray us last night the minute we saw her tits in that shirt.
But seriously, those tits.
The cold shower is doing nothing but pissing me off and making my dick feel like it’s about to freeze off.
I quickly wash off, grab a towel and check my phone.
She hasn’t texted at all. I don’t really blame her, but at least say, oh hey, you alive? Or maybe something like, ready for today’s challenge?
Ugh, why does it feel like I’m waiting for my date to text me back? It’s not like last night was a date; it was more like me feeling desperate to talk to someone, thinking of her constantly, and, you know, sitting on her couch while watching a creepy documentary about squatters. And they say romance is dead!
I should have one hundred percent gone for a Ryan Gosling movie or Ryan Reynolds. Fuck, why didn’t I just stick with the Ryans?