The Bookworm's Guide to Flirting (The Bookworm's Guide 3)

And even though I wasn’t even close to being in love with Dylan, this one had hurt more than all the others.

It was all wrong.

So I cried.

Quietly, into my pillow.

Tears of hurt. Tears of anger. Tears of frustration.

Of downright humiliation.

Of maybe, just maybe, there were feelings I just wasn’t ready to accept.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN – SAYLOR

RULE FIFTEEN: JUST DON’T FUCKING FLIRT.

The bookstore was closed for the weekend while we took stock, and I’d never been happier about that. I could still fulfill online orders, and I had several sample mugs here at home that I could photograph for Tori to put on the store.

That was my plan for today.

I could do that in my room and not have to see Dylan at all. That was something that worked for me, so I ordered pizza for lunch and took it to my room once it was delivered.

My phone was the perfect thing for Netflix, so I sat on my bed in my sweats, eating pizza, watching Netflix, and hiding away from the world.

I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want to do anything.

I was humiliated.

After everything that had happened, after all my resistance, I couldn’t believe I’d gone against my own instinct to kiss Dylan.

I couldn’t believe I’d been so fucking stupid.

With a clearer head than I’d had last night, I was so mad at myself. Mad that I hadn’t thought to wait, but even madder that he’d rejected me after all his comments.

All those stupid little comments.

After everything Seb had said to me.

I was a fool. A complete and utter fool.

I was about to set the first photo up when my phone buzzed with a text. It was Holley, so I opened it.

HOLLEY: You kissed Dylan?????

Great.

ME: I don’t want to talk about it.

HOLLEY: He talked to Seb this morning. You were so against it!

ME: Blame your fucking boyfriend. He talked idiocy into me and I fell for it.

HOLLEY: What happened?

ME: If you know I kissed him, you know what happened.

HOLLEY: I’m sorry. I didn’t know Seb was going to say all that to you. Is there a chance there was a miscommunication with you and Dylan?

ME: I don’t think so. He was pretty clear when he pushed me away.

HOLLEY: You’re hiding in your room, aren’t you?

ME: I can’t talk to him. I’m humiliated, Hols. I was finally about to open up to someone and this happens.

HOLLEY: I’m so sorry, Say. I guess we were all wrong.

ME: I know you were.

I tossed my phone away. Yes, they were wrong. That was glaringly obvious.

I didn’t want to talk about it. At all. It was still too raw, and I was too humiliated by my actions, and this was exactly why I hadn’t done anything until now.

I closed the pizza box and wiped my hands with a makeup wipe to remove any last traces of grease from them. With that done, I moved to handle the photos for the website. I had no notable photography skills, but apparently all Holley required was a marginally good phone camera and some natural lighting.

Tori had the photoshop skills.

She had enough of those for twenty people.

It more than made up for my crappy photography skills.

I snapped photo after photo, getting several variations of them. Some of them used a tripod, and the act of posing—while wearing one of our store shirts—helped to distract my brain long enough that, with some decent editing, we could launch our new collection soon.

And I was done.

I looked around my room, but I was most definitely done. There was nothing else left for me to do but finally satisfy my thirst and venture into the kitchen.

I glanced at the time. There was little risk of running into Dylan, so I quickly darted to the kitchen for some water, then walked into the living room. I loved my bedroom, but I’d spent enough time in there lately.

The apartment door opened.

I froze.

Dylan stepped inside, his hair wet, and dumped his gym bag by the door. He pulled his coat off and hung it up, then froze when he caught sight of me. “Saylor.”

The lump in my throat was suffocating. “Hi.”

“I thought you were at the store.”

“No. It’s my weekend off.” We’d agreed that we’d all get one weekend off a month since the start of the year. “I’ll just—”

“Can we talk?” He interrupted my attempt at escape.

No.

I didn’t want to.

He was the last person in the world I wanted to talk to right now.

Instead of saying that, I simply shrugged one shoulder and perched on the arm of the sofa.

I didn’t trust myself to respond to that.

He kicked off his sneakers and shut the door behind him. His sweater bore the logo of some team he liked that he swore was a football team, and he pulled that over his head, offering me an all-too-delicious view of his toned abs.