CHAPTERONE
DYLAN
I don’t rememberher name.
I should because she told me what it was at the bar last night before I ordered the cab to bring her back to my place. And it makes me a total dick, but every time I look at the redhead curled up in the corner of my bed, all I can think is: Miss Susie.
Which definitely isn’t this woman’s name.
Becausethatname belonged to my kindergarten teacher, who also happened to be my first crush. Whatever happened to Miss Susie? She must be about fifty by now. She had the most gorgeous ice-blue eyes. And that sandbox in the corner of her classroom was the highlight of my day. I really loved that sandbox. So much better than the water table.
The woman tangled in my sheets rolls over, her foggy eyes surrounded by a layer of smudged black eyeliner. I offer her a lazy smile, even though I have a mountain of stuff to do today and lying around in bed with this woman isn’t on the list.
“Morning,” she says, her voice raspy from all the karaoking she’d done last night before landing on the stool next to mine. Her sleepy gaze takes in my jeans and T-shirt. “What time is it?”
“Eight o’clock.”
Her brows come together. “Why do you look so awake?”
Because I’m a morning person—not that she needs to know that since this will be the only morning we spend together. “I have to get to work.”
“Isn’t it Saturday?”
“It sure is.” The joys of self-employment. Doesn’t matter what day it is, there’s always something to do.
She lifts to her elbows, and the white sheet around her slips, revealing the soft swells of her breasts. “Don’t you work from home?” Her gaze falls on my Nikon F2 sitting on the nightstand, the first camera my dad ever gave me.
Yeah, I work from home. But that doesn’t mean I get to lounge around whenever I want. If I did that, I’d get nothing done. The first thing Dad taught my sisters and me about owning your own business is the importance of a schedule. Usually, I start work at eight—meaning I’m already seven minutes late.
“I do, but I have a lot of meetings scheduled today.” First, I have to introduce my favorite mug to a fresh cup of coffee; next is a meet-and-greet with a pile of emails. After that, I need to swing by the camera shop to pick up the new Leica super wide-angle lens I’ve had my eye on. And when I get back, I’m meeting with a vat of developer and three rolls of film I shot earlier in the week.
“Oh, okay. Sorry. I’ll get out of here and let you get to work.” She gives me the same sultry smile that had me asking her back to my place. When she rolls out of bed, the other reasons I asked her are on full display.
“Can I get you a cab?” I call after her. There’s no way she’s going to be walking anywhere in those four-inch stilettos lying beside her black thong. I’m not sure where she lives, but the bar where we met had been across town, so more than likely, it’s nowhere near here.
“That’d be great. Thanks.” Not-Miss-Susie whips her dress off the back of the chair where she’d straddled me last night for an impromptu lap dance and heads toward the bathroom.
I order a ride share to meet her at the front of the apartment building in ten minutes. Wouldn’t want her lingering too long and making things awkward with idle chit-chat. I don’t want to know how she likes her eggs or how she takes her coffee. I don’t need to hear about her parents’ divorce when she turned seven or about all her terrible ex-boyfriends.
I have my baby sister Hayley for that sort of drama.
Hayley calls me at least once a week crying because her latest shithead boyfriend cheated on her, or another ghosted her, or some other prick said she wasn’t the kind of girl he wanted to bring home to meet his mother.
What kind of person says that shit? Honestly. My sisters are lucky I live in Texas because if I was anywhere close to New York, where Hayley lives, or to the rest of my family in Maryland, those assholes would be dead, and I’d end up in jail, and our mom would get upset and it’d be a whole thing.
If you’re not interested in dating someone, you say it flat out.
If you’re not going to stay faithful, don’t call a woman your girlfriend, and don’t even think about proposing.
It’s really not that fucking hard.
Not-Miss-Susie pads out of the bathroom in the same slinky black dress I peeled her out of only a few hours ago. “I had a lot of fun last night,” she says, her cheeks staining pink.
“Yeah. Last night was great.”
She twists her palms together like she’s nervous. Which is crazy to me, considering we’ve both seen each other naked. “Do you…um…want my number?” she asks.
I can’t say I want her number because, A: I don’t, and B: Even if I did, I wouldn’t know what name to put it under. “Redhead with great tits who looks like Miss Susie” doesn’t exactly scream “She’s the one” to me.
