He dips the spoon into the container again. “You keep saying that, but we both know it’s not true.”
Sighing, I rub my throbbing temple. I’m tired, sore, and hungry, and the only thing that will make it better is that ice cream, so I swallow my pride and force a tight smile. “May I have some ice cream, Brandon?”
“What’s the magic word?”
“Please,” I hiss.
He chuckles. “There. Was that so hard?” Immediately, he leans forward and slides the packed spoon into my mouth. I avoid looking him in the eye as the flavor melts on my tongue. Yup. Just as I suspected. Pure, unadulterated ecstasy. I don’t allow myself to eat sweets very often, simply because I always overdo it and make myself sick. I don’t have any self-control.
Which is why Brandon and Icannotbe friends.
I give him a sour look when he takes another bite. “Brandon, look. Thank you for yesterday and this morning. I appreciate your help with Grandma, but you and I . . .” I shake my head morosely. “We both know why we can’t be friends.” There’s too much unresolved chemistry buzzing between us. It was like we cracked open a shaken soda bottle the night we slept together.
Neither of us were prepared for the explosion or the fallout.
His jaw hardens as he lifts another bite of ice cream to my mouth. “What if I don’t want to be just friends?”
The utter gall of this man. What he wants is not something I’m prepared to give him.Friends with benefits.I hate the term. Hate it with every fiber of my being.
“Sorry. Tough luck, kid.” I swipe the spoon and steal the tub of ice cream from his lap. “Now scram.”
He’s quiet for several moments, watching me shovel spoonfuls of ice cream into my mouth with the urgency of a rabid animal. “Come be my assistant, Evie.”
Startled, I drop the tub of ice cream onto the floor. It splatters all over the carpet. “What?”
Brandon springs from the bed and retrieves the tub of ice cream. He sets it on my nightstand before looking around for something to wipe up the mess. I point to a towel on the back of my door, and he scoops up the residue while I stare at him, dumbfounded.
“Your assistant.” I laugh. “What?”
I’m laughing for so many reasons. One, Brandon doesn’t know how to handle rejection. He has never been told no by a woman a day in his life, and it shows. Two, hewouldtry to rope me back into his life by making me his assistant. And three . . .
“I have a job, Brandon.”
“Yes, and it’s slowly killing you.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I mutter under my breath.
“What?”
I look away. “Nothing.”
“I mean it, Evie. Come be my assistant. I’ll pay you triple what you make at the agency. You’ll actually have money to put away for that trip you’ve been trying to save up for.”
My mouth falls open. He remembers. I’ve always wanted to backpack my way across Europe, and a few summers ago, I had booked a flight to London as a reward for finding the courage to end my engagement with Adam, despite my father’s wishes. I was due to leave the week after Grandma’s fall, but I never ended up going, opting to move in with her instead—just to keep Dad off her case about moving into an assisted living facility.
Amidst my shock, I’m also feeling a strange sense of déjà vu. Brandon has asked me to be his assistant before. I didn’t want to complicate what I believed to be our romantic situation at the time, so I said no. Because, yes, once upon a time, I thought we were headed toward a relationship.
Turns out he never had any intention of committing to me.
And, suddenly, the dots connect with alarming clarity. Brandon wanted to make me his assistant for one reason and one reason only. My stomach shrivels, the ice cream curdling inside of me. I should have known. No man wants to work with his significant other.
But he might want to bang the help.
I’m so hurt by this revelation that I feel myself shut down. Feel my face drop as my heart glazes with newfound hatred for him. And I thought I hated him before. “Get out.”
He rises quickly, sensing I’ve hit the end of my tether. “Tell me you’ll at least think about it.”
“No.” I point at the door. “Get out.”
