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“No.”
“But you hate her?”
“No.”
“How can you not? She barely apologized. Oh, sorry about fucking this asshole. Have some free cake. How about a coffee? That should make up for it.” I dig my cell from my purse. “Sorry. I shouldn’t get pissed on your behalf—”
“It’s fine.”
I try to place the tone of his voice, but I can’t.
“Trust me. The breakup playlist will help.” I reach for the aux cable.
“I trust you, but—”
“Good.”
“Is he awful or is it me?”
“Boat Shoes?”
His laugh bounces around the car. “Frank, yeah.”
“I refuse to call him anything but Boat Shoes. And yes. He is. I’m sure he has some redeeming qualities. A fat bank account. Or a massive cock. Or un
godly oral sex skills—”
He stares at me like I’m crazy.
My cheeks flush. “I don’t mean, uh… I’m sure you’re also incredibly talented. But I… uh… I don’t get it. I know that doesn’t help, that it probably hurts worse—it did for me. But I don’t get why she’d—”
“Leigh—”
“Sorry.”
“I need to wash that taste out of my mouth.”
Yes. With your lips. Or your neck. Or your cock. Right here is fine. As long as you promise to pull my hair… Ahem. “Me too.”
He nods. “You want lunch?”
No. I want you to unzip those jeans and pull me into your lap. “Sure.”
Chapter 12
Leighton
“Fuck.” I let out a soft groan.
Lean back in my chair.
Savor every ounce of eggplant Parmesan. Tender, umami eggplant. Rich, tangy marinara. Fresh mozzarella. Sharp garlic.
It’s not as good as Ryan in my mouth.
But it’s still fucking good.
“You eating that or fucking it?” He brings a slice of his—well, our, we’re sharing two dishes—white fish to his lips. Chews. Swallows.
