“Teeny, no,” I say urgently. I take a step back, giving her space, but she follows, eyeing me with worry. Like I might be upset or mad. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Her hand reaches for my arm. “You didn’t,” she assures. “This is all just really new to me. I’ve never had, like, a boyfriend, and I guess I just want to make sure I’m doing things right. I’d hate to disappoint you.”
I chuckle. “You’re not disappointing me, Teen. Not even close.”
She tugs at my hand, and I look at her, both of us wearing silly, bashful smiles. “Really?” she asks shyly, though a hint of excitement shines through when her eyes light up, and her smile widens into a relieved grin.
I nod. “Really.”
She nods too.
“But I don’t want to keep doing this if you’re not?—”
“I am,” she interrupts. “I’m okay with it. I just needed a moment. That’s all.”
I tilt my head to the side, studying her.
“Really,” she adds. “It’s just…is it normally like this?”
I already know the answer to her question, but I play dumb. “Like how?”
“Like…when I kiss you, I get…” She pauses, searching for her next words. “I don’t know how to explain it, but I’ve never felt?—”
“No.”
“No?”
I shake my head. “No,” I answer. “It’s never like this.”
CHAPTERELEVEN
Teeny
NOW
“He stayed the night?!”
I look at Grace, my eyes rolling at her laughable assumption. “Not like that. I zonked out on the couch and he…I’m sure he slept somewhere where he was able to keep a safe distance and make sure I didn’t die from alcohol poisoning.”
She side-eyes with skepticism.
“Also, that was totally your fault.”
“How so?”
“You gave him my keys.Andaddress.”
Her palms face the ceiling, playing innocent. “You were drunk. I couldn’t let you drive.” I poke at her shoulder, and she rubs the spot as a smirk slips through the annoyed scowl on my face. “How do you know?”
“What do you mean?”
“How do you know he didn’t spend the night watching you sleep like some creepy serial killer?”
“Because he wouldn’t, Grace,” I tell her, sounding a little exasperated. I take a long sip of the red wine in my glass and pick at the sushi we got for takeout while sitting on the floor of her living room. Buster hides under the coffee table, his tail thumping against the carpet, as he peers up at us, hoping to nab a rollaway salmon roll. “Besides, it’s not like that between us anymore.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We’re ancient history,” I explain, avoiding her scrutinizing gaze.
