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Chapter Twelve
Nora
IKNOW THAT IF I nod, all bets are off. Landon will press his mouth to mine, and there will be no more talking. That can’t happen. Not that I don’t want it to, because, boy, do I.
“Skip,” I say into his mouth.
His eyes drop, ever so slightly, and I hate the look in his eyes. I saw it in Scarsdale and when I left outside Juliette. Sadness should never touch Landon, not him.
“I’m skipping the question. If I don’t, we will never talk like this.” Each word burns like bleach down my throat. I want his hands on me more than I would ever be stupid enough to admit.
I kept on telling myself to keep my distance from this boy. He’s too young for you, Nora. Too young.
I look at the dark stubble on his chin. He was freshly shaven yesterday. I can’t believe that’s something I pay attention to, but I can’t help but notice. The hair grows thicker around his chin. He doesn’t look so young now, standing in front of me with his eyes on me. His eyes aren’t as young as his body. Something older, wiser, is inside them. I don’t know what it was, but something hurt him deeper than just a breakup with Dakota.
“You’re skipping the question?” His lips turn up, forming a shy smile, and his arms close tighter around me. He’s still gripping the edge of the counter, but the safe space between us is getting smaller and smaller.
I nod, and his smile grows. Barely moving, he shakes his head, just slightly.
My God, he’s convincing.
And too nice.
He’s too nice for you, Nora.
Way, way, way too nice.
Fuck, I’ve turned into that woman I always thought I despised. I hate women like that; they are the literal worst.
This is how that woman works:
Phase One: She sits around with her closest friends, drinking wine in their pajamas. “I’ve dated too many assholes. Why are all men assholes?” she cries into her cheap Moscato. “No more assholes for me.” She raises her coffee mug full of wine.
Phase Two: She shows up for coffee with her friends. She suddenly likes bitter coffee because her new beau does, and he’s nice and smart, and she’s never dating an asshole again. “He’s so sweet,” she tells her friends. And she’s right—you won’t find him at a bar on a Friday night, or nursing a hangover on Saturday morning. You’ll find him walking the aisles of Anthropologie, holding her coffee while she tries on everything in the store.
Phase Three: She sits with her friends at a nightclub, wearing a new black dress, and has curled her hair for the first time in a month. She’s wearing full makeup, not for her nice guy, not even for herself. “I’m kinda not sure about him anymore. He’s kind of boring,” she complains, and shares a smile with a hot guy in the crowd.
Phase Four (last and final phase): She sits on her couch, watching reruns of Grey’s Anatomy. Her friends sit around her with wine in their hands. “Men are such assholes,” she says, because the hot guy from the club cheated on her and now she’s back to Phase One.
I am that woman right now.
“I don’t think skipping that one’s very fair.” Landon’s mouth touches my ear, and I shiver.
My God, this man.
