Page 44 of Clinically Awkward

So dangerous.

Because once she was here, in my apartment, sitting on my couch, drinking my beer. Once that happened, I couldn’t pretend anymore. I couldn’t pretend this was just friendship. I couldn’t pretend I was just being protective. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t want more.

My phone buzzed.

Vivi: On my way.

After grabbing a beer, I sat on the couch and waited, as I tried very, very hard not to think about what I was about to do.

Fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes until Vivian Darcy walked through my door.

Fifteen minutes until everything changed.

I was so screwed.

CHAPTER TEN

Vivi

Remember that scene in Grey’s Anatomy where Izzy and George got so stinking drunk that they did the unthinkable and George didn’t remember shit?

Well, that was what I was praying for as I snuck out of Quinton’s apartment a little after three in the morning, leaving what dignity I had left behind as I raced to my car, praying that when Quinton woke up, he didn’t remember shit.

Because if he did, I was screwed.

I still didn’t know how it happened. All I knew was that one minute we were drinking beer, laughing at something on the television, and the next, I kissed him.

Not just kissed him in the sweet, rom-com movie way.

God, no. My tongue was down his throat checking for tonsillitis.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let me back up.

I had been sitting in my car outside Quinton’s apartment building, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.

This was fine. This was totally fine. I was just going to my friend’s apartment. My friend, who happened to be male. My friend, who happened to be ridiculously attractive. My friend whom I had been spending every weekend with for the past two months. My friend, who made me laugh harder than anyone I had ever met.

My friend who—Stop.

Stop spiraling. This is not a date. This is two friends having a beer.

That’s all.

Grabbing my purse, I got out of the car and walked to the building entrance, then pressed the buzzer for apartment 4B.

“Hey.” Quinton’s voice crackled through the intercom. “Come on up.”

The door buzzed, and I pulled it open. Climbing the stairs, each step felt heavier than the last, and by the time I reached the fourth floor, my heart was pounding. Which was ridiculous. This was Quinton. Quinton, who I worked with. Quinton, who I had been to baseball games with. Quinton, who I had gone hiking with. Quinton, who—The door to 4B opened, and there he was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt that said, “I’m not arguing; I’m just explaining why I’m right.” He was bare foot and his hair was slightly messy, almost as if he had been running his hands through it, and that smile.

That goddamn smile that made my stomach flip.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I managed.