Kiss Me Again (Kiss Me 3)

That was a possibility. Given that I kept him at arm’s length so he didn’t accidentally find out how I felt about him…

I sighed and dropped my arms. I really wasn’t sure I’d thought through my warmongering stance on this. I just wanted to win, but I wasn’t even sure what exactly it was we were competing for.

He was already showing signs of breaking. Taking away the sport and Netflix was a good one. That really hit where it hurt, and I made a mental note to text Angelica to thank her for that one.

Her changing her password was a nice touch.

It really gave the move some oomph.

Of course, Ethan had been right. I was stuck here at work for another six-ish hours while he was back at the apartment, maybe doing something. Maybe not doing anything at all.

It was torture to think about.

I had to be ready to fight back—a thin shirt with no bra and taking a bite out of every single cookie in the packet he’d just bought was a smart next move.

Hell, the no-bra one was easy. I’d get a headstart on that tomorrow morning. You know, be proactive and all that. That was how I’d win this.

I pulled my phone out from under the bar and, after glancing around to make sure nobody needed anything, tapped out a quick text.

ME: He’s mad. Next up, biting all the cookies and basically getting my boobs out.

HALLEY: Smart. When does the boob thing start?

REAGAN: Why are you getting your boobs out? Are you changing jobs again?

ME: Tomorrow. At work. Halley will explain.

I tucked the phone back away to serve the woman at the other end of the bar. Going back to it when she’d gone, I shook my head at how their conversation had ended.

HALLEY: $50 says the boobs make him break.

REAGAN: Nah, he’s gonna win. Deal.

ME: You two need another hobby.

CHAPTER NINE – AVA

Will He, Won’t He

Everything looked perfect.

I was worried.

It was like being a parent—they always said that they only worried what their kids were up to when it was silent.

Obviously, I didn’t have kids, but I imagined this was how they felt.

Absolutely nothing in the apartment seemed to be out of place. Ethan was already at work, and that’d allowed me to do a thorough walk-through and check everything I could think of.

None of my food had been eaten. Nothing hidden. He hadn’t hacked the Netflix account or anything. The hedgehog was safely in its cage.

There was nothing.

Nada.

I was extremely uncomfortable with this. I’d been sure that he’d retaliate immediately, but obviously, his talk last night had done its job.

I was really fucking paranoid.

I didn’t like it. At all. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, even though I knew I was alone.

He had to have done something.

I shivered and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. I was too jittery even to drink coffee, so I drank some of the water, then went into my room to change into my running stuff.

Running was the only way I’d be able to shift some of this nervous energy.

I changed quickly and pulled my hair into a ponytail. After treble-checking my shoes for spiky pig poop, I put them on and tied the laces tight, then headed outside with my phone, money, and keys in the handy zip pockets in my pants.

Yep. Every item of clothing needed pockets. Pockets were so underrated. And, as a woman, my clothes did not have enough pockets. Dresses with pockets were so delightful—whenever anyone said they liked my dress, I was just like that internet meme that declares we women stick our hands in said pockets and perform some questionable ballet routine just to say, “Thanks! My dress has pockets!”

When I eventually rise to power, everyone will have pockets in all clothes.

That was definitely a solid use of power.

Ava, 2028. Make Pockets Great Again.

That’s right. I was going to sweep votes based on that alone.

We are women, and we demand pockets in all our clothing. It was a seriously underrated human right.

I know. First world problems. But first world problems are still problems, and anyone who thinks pockets aren’t a necessity has never pulled twenty dollars out of their bra.

Here, have some boob sweat for your troubles, said nobody ever.

Actually, said thousands of women ever, but I digress.

I picked up my running pace as I rounded the corner to the park. Despite all my complaints, I’d become pretty accustomed to this part of my day. Well, my week. Let’s be honest: I wasn’t running every day. More like… every three days.

Running was running. My mouth probably didn’t count here, but I did that at least ten times a day.

My feet pounded against the asphalt path that wound its way through the Creek Falls park. Thanks to the trees that stretched into the sky, I was pretty much sheltered from the sun as I ran. The lack of water I’d brought with me was already killing me, so I kept an eye open for where I could buy some.