“Yeah,” she says, sounding sex drunk, a little raspy.
Tension lines my body as I wonder what’s next. If I’ll have the guts to leave, like I should. Or if I’ll cave. Like I want to. Like I really,reallywant to.
Chloe’s expression shifts—turns serious, businesslike. “And then…you should probably go.”
My chest aches the slightest bit. I should have seen that coming. But I didn’t. “Right, sure,” I say, grabbing my clothes.
“I mean, otherwise I’ll be climbing you again in thirty minutes, and you need your rest,” she says, trying for playful.
But it lands like a compliment to cover kicking me out.
And it hurts more than it should—even though I know she’s right.
I should go.
19
JUGGLE MY DUCKS
CHLOE
Am I the asshole?
All my adult life, I’ve prided myself on not being one. But there’s something about the hard set of Sawyer’s jaw and the precise movement of his fingers as he zips up his slacks that has me wondering.
Was that—asking him to leave—the kind of male behavior that women will often dissect and debate over vanilla lattes and croissants the next morning until we can officially apply the asshole designation to a friend’s hookup?
Sure, I kind of want him to stay, but that would be a mistake.
In my bedroom, I tug on a T-shirt Ripley gave me from her farm. Underneath an illustration of bees buzzing in a bouquet of lavender are the words:Save the Bees. No Really, Save the Fucking Bees.
With the shirt hitting my thighs, I head back out to the livingroom, my stomach churning with…nerves as Sawyer buttons his shirt now, with a deliberateness too.
“We just have to be professional, right? That’s what we talked about initially. We’re working together,” I say, and maybe I’m overexplaining my comment. But it feels necessary. Partly because of the way he’s standing. Or really, where—on the other side of the couch. It feels like a barrier between us.
He looks up, but his fingers don’t stop moving on the buttons. “Of course,” he says, casual and almost nonchalant. He spins around, hunting for something on the floor. His tie? Oh yes, his tie.
I tossed it to the edge of the living room in a flurry to get him naked. “I’ll get your tie,” I say, hustling to pass my coffee table—then I walk smack into it.
With my knee. And the pain shoots up my thigh, right into the center of my soul and back to my kneecap.
“Holy shit.” I wince, bending over.
“You okay?” Sawyer advances toward me, real concern in his eyes. Almost boyfriend levels of concern.
But that’s a silly thought.
I ward him off, waving my hand. “I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just the table. Those rubber ducks tripped me up. My bad,” I say, but it feels…well, I’ll just say it.
Like the table’s punishing me for what I said.
Maybe I did say the wrong thing when I told him he should go? I’m not just an asshole, I am a flaming asshole. I wince and turn, despite the pain shooting through my leg.
“I juggle them,” I blurt out as I hand him the silk neckwear.
As he takes the tie, his face is blank for a second, but then I point to the ducks. “The ducks. I juggle them. I do it for…relaxation.”
The line digs deeper. He seems to be picturing it. “I was not expecting that.”
