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It was because we like each other.
Those words hung between us. Unsaid. Neither of us wanted to admit it until the other did, so we were stuck in a loop of silence.
Adam sighed, releasing my hair. “You want me to take you home?”
I nodded, picking my purse up from my feet. “Please.”
“All right, Red. Come on.”
***
Adam pulled open my door. “I’ll walk you up.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. But I’m a gentleman, and that’s what gentlemen do.” He held the door for me to get out of the car. “Come on.”
I got out, clutching my purse to me. I made it to the door before him and punched in the code, slipping through and trying to close the door before he made it there.
I failed.
Adam put his foot between the door and the frame. “Nice try, Red.”
“Fuck it.” I turned and went to the stairs, but he beat me there, too. Instead of letting me walk, he scooped me up in one movement, despite my protests, and threw me over his shoulder.
“Shut up,” he said. “You’ll disturb your neighbors.”
“You’re manhandling me!”
He took to the next flight of stairs. “Hardly. I’m giving you a helping hand.”
He and I had different ideas of what a helping hand was. “Try offering me your arm next time, Fred Flintstone.”
“Yes, Wilma.”
“I can kick your balls from here.”
“You won’t do that.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you like my balls.”
“Wrong,” I said. “I’m indifferent to balls in general. Footballs, basketballs, hockey balls—”
He coughed. “Pucks.”
“What?”
“You play hockey with pucks. Not balls.”
“Hockey is weird,” I said matter-of-factly. “And so are you. Now put me down.”
“Gladly.” He slid me down his body. “Here’s your apartment.”
I rolled my eyes and pushed him away from me. “You’re annoying me. This has been the most frustrating night ever.” I dug in my purse for my keys and yanked them out from the bottom corner.
Why were they always in the bottom corner?
I jammed them in the door and twisted, unlocking it. The apartment was completely silent since Avery was at work, and I was looking forward to hiding in the bathroom.
That was how normal, rational people dealt with complete emotional upheaval, wasn’t it?
I stepped inside and turned, catching Adam’s eye. There was something rueful about his expression—a sadness that glinted in his gaze.
I put down my purse and hugged the door. “Thanks for humoring my parents,” I said softly. “Sorry it wasn’t what we thought.”
He shrugged one shoulder, lifting it to his ear before he dropped it down. “Hey—we got away with it for this long. It is what it is, right?”
“Right.” My heart clenched.
Stupid heart.
“Now your dad is on your side when you have to explain why we didn’t work,” Adam continued. “Because that’s how this goes, isn’t it?”
No.
“Yeah. I mean… We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my dad, so… Yeah.”
God, he was so beautiful.
This is why I didn’t do this again. This is why I couldn’t see him. I’d said goodbye once. I didn’t want to have to do it a second time.
“Thank you,” I said again.
Adam cupped the side of my face. “No, Red. Thank you.”
He kissed me, his lips touching mine with an air of finality that forced a lump in my throat. Tingles ran over my skin, and I knew this was it.
This was goodbye.
This was where our crazy, fake romance ended.
And I wasn’t okay with it.
He pulled back, running his thumb over my lower lip one last time. “See you, Red.”
“See you.” My voice was barely there, and I pushed the door shut so I didn’t have to look at him.
It clicked, and I flattened my back against it, squeezing my eyes shut.
God, he was there. He was right fucking there.
Four fucking days. Four fucking days had me twisted up like a freshly-knitted scarf.
Wood.
Wood was all that separated us.
What if I opened the door? Would he still be there? What if I pulled off my shoes and chased him?
Tonight, technically, we were still fake. Sure, my feelings were hella real, but he was right fucking there.
Could I let him leave without kissing him one more time? Like I meant it? If I kissed him hard enough, would I be able to tell him that I was falling for him?
That I was falling for him based on four days and those memories on loop.
Was that possible?
Would I hate myself if I tried?
Would I hate myself if I didn’t?
Oh, fuck, man. Why did he have to be perfect? Why did he have to be everything? Why couldn’t he be bad in bed or have one leg shorter than the other?
Why did he have to make me so completely obsessed with him?
And why did the thought of never seeing him again—ever—hurt me so fucking much?
I kicked off my shoes and kicked them right across the floor. My hands dove into my hair as I squeezed my eyes shut again.
