“Can you be any cockier?” I whipped my head around to scowl at him.
“Yes, but then I’d have to wear a condom.”
There had been some relief to breaking up with Chase. Six months into our relationship, I was still flustered and constantly berating myself for saying the wrong thing in his presence. My voice was always high pitched when he was around, and I filtered my words, my thoughts, to try to be the woman I thought the Chase Black would date. He felt so far out of my league that I concentrated on not making errors more than I did on getting to know him and having fun. I’d always felt less. Less attractive, less stylish, less smart. Hating him now was so much easier than trying to worm my way into his bitter heart, like I had when we were dating.
“So. His name.” Chase returned to the subject at hand.
“How is that your business?” I began to scratch at my nail polish to keep my hands from strangling him.
“It is my business who my fiancée is fucking,” he said matter-of-factly. I paused midscratch, pulling at the delicate flesh around one nail and tugging at the dead skin until it ripped.
“Fake fiancée,” I corrected.
“And a real pain in the ass.”
“Gosh, Chase, how are you single? You’re just about the most charming man I’ve ever met.”
“I choose to be single,” he fired back, smiling patronizingly. “Just like you choose to date anyone under the sun, just as long as you’re not alone.”
Ouch. Awkward silence filled the car. The banter was fine, but when we started speaking truths, that was when it got too much. Not that I did date anyone under the sun, but I was pretty sure Chase actually believed what he’d said. I decided to play along. It wasn’t like I had anything to hide. I was proud of Ethan.
“Ethan. Ethan Goodman.”
“Goodman,” Chase repeated, whistling low.
“Nice job, Chase. I didn’t know you had that word in your vocabulary. How did it taste?”
“Like two point three kids, a suffocating mortgage on a Westchester house you hate, and a midlife crisis consisting of mild alcohol abuse at forty.” His eyes were still hard on the road. “What does Ethan Goodman do for a living?”
“Doctor.” I kept it vague, feeling my cheeks heat.
“Hmm. I’m going to rule out plastic surgeon on the grounds that it is too sexy—actually, any kind of surgeon; he doesn’t seem the steady-hand type—and go with dentist.” He paused, frowning at the row of vehicles ahead of him. “No. That would actually be profitable. I changed my mind. Ethan Goodman is a pediatrician.” He swiveled his head, flashing me a smirk so sinister I physically felt it licking at my skin.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I narrowed my eyes. “He saves lives.”
“Private practice.” He ignored me, hitting the nail on the head once again. “So technically, he fills out growth charts with handwriting nobody can understand and examines butt rashes. Let me guess—he did a tour somewhere to give back to the community. Gain perspective. South America? Asia? No . . .” He paused, grinning so widely I was tempted to punch him square in the face. “Africa. He is committed to the cliché.”
“Yeah, the cliché of saving lives and helping others.” Seriously, my face felt so hot I was one blush away from exploding. “He’s a good man.”
“Clearly. It’s in his fucking name. And you’re here because Ethan the good man has some commitment issues of his own.”
“Excuse me?”
“Why else would he be okay with this arrangement? He wants to see how you and I play out.”
“We are not a thing. Ethan and I met at SeriousSinglesOnly.com,” I couldn’t help but blurt out, and I immediately regretted the decision. It wasn’t something I wanted to advertise, but Chase needed to know he was wrong about at least one thing. I mean, obviously, his very existence was wrong on multiple levels, but I was talking specifically about Ethan.
“You could have met him at WillMarryAnyoneForABlowJob.com, and I would still think the same. He is no more committed to you than you are to me, and you two are forcing this shit upon each other despite you having zero chemistry just because you don’t want to be alone. Called it now. Thank me later.”
“You’re one to talk,” I muttered, returning to the task of scratching off my nail polish. It was a nasty habit I was trying to kick, but the need to taint his precious Tesla with dry flakes of Moroccan Nights pink was overwhelming.
“I can do more than talking,” he mumbled.
“As much as you shutting up is tempting, no thanks.”
I swiveled my head back to my window, to the safety of watching other people in their cars, trying to lower my heartbeat to a normal rate. I thought we were done talking. I hoped so, anyway. And then . . .