Every Time I Fall (Orchid Valley 3)

“Does Kace know about this?” Vince asks. “Somehow I don’t think he’d appreciate you fucking around with his little sister when we all know you have no intention of making an honest woman out of her.” An honest woman? What is this, 1892? I barely hide my eye roll, but then Vince adds, “Especially when we all know you were fucking his wife.”

Just like that, Dean’s out of the booth and in Vince’s face. “What’d you just say?”

Vince’s ruddy cheeks turn bright red as he stumbles back. “Nothing. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Dean moves to follow him before I make it out of my side of the booth and grab his arm. “Don’t. Please?”

Dean doesn’t take another step, but there’s so much fury in his eyes, I’m not surprised when Vince back-pedals all the way out the front door.

“I’m sorry.” I squeeze his wrist one more time before pulling away. Dean is warm and strong, and since I turned fifteen, I’ve made sure to never touch him more than necessary, to never let physical affection betray the depth of my emotional affection.

Dean glares at the glass door until Vince disappears from sight. Only then does he turn to me. The moment his eyes connect with mine, all his rage melts away and is replaced with apology. “I’m the one who’s sorry. He made it sound like you’re . . . like we . . .”

Is he embarrassed at the prospect of someone thinking we’re messing around? Disgusted? I bow my head and slide back into the booth. “It’s fine,” I mutter. “I don’t think anyone actually believes we’re having a secret affair.”

“You can’t be seriously interested in that guy,” he says, taking the bench across from me. Really? He’s going to stay and chat after that?

“I’m not.”

“You’re interested enough to make him press you. That’s new.”

“I wanted to be interested, but it turns out I’m not.” Especially now. Bringing up Amy was low, and implying that Dean slept with Amy while she and Kace were still together was even worse. Dean’s made mistakes, but he’d never do that.

He drums his fingers on the table, studying me. “I need you to explain that to me. Why would you want to be interested in Vince if you’re not interested in Vince?”

“I just . . .” I look around to make sure no one can overhear our conversation. “I’d just like to get comfortable with . . . stuff, ya know?”

Dean arches a brow. “Stuff?”

“You know, like, dating stuff.”

He folds his arms on top of the table and leans forward, head cocked toward me. “You’re going to have to explain. What dating stuff? There’s nothing to learn. Pay if you want; don’t if you don’t want. Go to coffee if that sounds good, or dinner if you prefer. It’s all personal preference. There’s no wrong way to do it except any way that makes you uncomfortable. Come on, furries are a thing. You can’t fuck this up.”

I snort-laugh and shake my head. “Not that dating stuff,” I say, but honest to God, I don’t know why I’m still talking. If this were a text message, I would’ve killed it with the delete key way back there.

Dean’s eyes go wide. “Physical stuff?”

Alarm bells blare in my head. Delete, delete, delete. “I’m bad at it, okay? So bad that my worries about it mess with how I act beforehand.” God, why am I still talking?

“Bad at what, exactly?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Why are you doing this to me? Do you hate me? Do you want me to look for the closest rock to curl under?”

“I’m serious.” He smiles, all traces of the Vince-induced rage gone at the mere whiff of making me uncomfortable. Butthead. “I want to know what it is you think you’re so bad at.”

“All of it,” I blurt, mostly because if I have to be uncomfortable, he should be too. Serves him right. “Sex.”

“You think you’re bad at . . . sex.” He says the words as if he’s repeating something absurd. Like the way you’d repeat someone who insists that cats walk on two legs or that boxed mac and cheese is better than homemade.

“I know I’m bad at sex.”

“I— What—” He shakes his head. “Can we back up a little?”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “We’re just going to pretend this conversation never happened. No backing up, no starting over, no remembering it at all. This didn’t happen. I wasn’t even here. This was all a figment of your imagination.”

Dean chuckles. “No. You’re not getting off the hook that easy. You just told me you were considering going out with Vincent Brunetti because you want to get better at sex.” He presses a palm to his chest. “Now I feel like it’s my duty to make sure you find a better”—he clears his throat and grins—“tool for the job.”