Page 66 of Your Pace Or Mine

After obsessing for a few hours and rewriting the same message two dozen times, I finally send something right before noon.

Hey Bash. How’s your morning? I’m kinda tired.

Going well. Getting a lot of work done.

Okay, so he didn’t take the bait. It’s not like him to ignore an opportunity to boast about his skill set, even without feelings in the equation.

No problem. I’ll let you work. Any plans tonight?

Not sure. I’m messaging a few women on the app, so that might lead to something.

My whole body goes cold. Twelve hours ago, he said he loved me and called me the best person he knows, and now he’s already planning to sleep with someone else? Sure, those were the terms of our arrangement, but the terms never involved whispered declarations of love. We were supposed to have benefits but no strings. Last night was a spiderweb’s worth of strings.

I should have known. This is Sebastian to a tee. He runs away from his feelings—always has. He was vulnerable yesterday, and now he’s closed up. It was stupid to think anything had changed. My first impulse was right; I should cut this whole thing off and focus on Jared. I send a fun, flirty text to check whether he’s fully recovered and he writes back right away. We spend the afternoon chatting until he asks if I’m free later.

Is this too fast? A voice in the back of my mind whispers that I should wait and work through my feelings more, but Sebastian made it perfectly clear that we don’t have that type of relationship. I’d be stupid to throw away something with promise for a lost cause.

Jared meets me at a Thai restaurant looking as good as ever. His arms are toned in short sleeves, and I’m a sucker for forearms. With his hair pushed back, I can see his brown eyes. He’s an attractive man for sure, and I keep expecting my body to respond in some way. For my stomach to flip-flop or my heart to speed up when he touches my hand, but my body is a traitor today. Nevertheless, I flash him a smile, then we sit down and order salad rolls and a carafe of wine to share.

We have an easy conversation, the topics flowing freely. I ask him how his parents are and if he’s fully recovered from the flu. We talk about summer travel, the podcasts we’ve been enjoying, recent work challenges. After dinner, Jared asks me if I want to grab ice cream and walk for a bit. It’s the kind of wholesome date I haven’t had in a while. It feels like he genuinely wants to be with me, not just to get into my pants, though I do catch him taking a glance at my butt, so at least I know he’s interested.

We find a local gelateria and agonize over the many options until I settle on mango and coconut and he gets pistachio and dark chocolate so we can try each other’s flavors. It’s straight out of a Hallmark movie, a perfect night.

To make the evening even more cute and quirky, I introduce a game while we walk and eat. We ask rapid-fire questions and can’t take more than a few seconds to respond.

“Favorite Avenger?” Jared asks.

“Thor. For sure.” I don’t tell him it’s because I like to watch Chris Hemsworth flex.

“Favorite type of pie?”

“Peach.” He pauses. “Or maybe cherry. Both of them.”

I shake my head. “You’re not allowed two. You have to choose.”

“Peach. You’re a harsh taskmaster.” His voice is low and flirty. We find a bench that’s blocked from public view by a large tree and sit down to finish our gelato.

“What can I say? I don’t make the rules.”

He chuckles because I did indeed make up the rules.

I lean closer into his side and look up at him. “Want the last bite?”

“I’m good,” he replies, watching me take my final spoonful.

I’m trying not to make this intentionally suggestive, but it’s hard not to feel a little sexy with someone staring at my lips while I savor my dessert. There’s a pause while we both gaze at each other, then he leans in. We kiss gently before he goes in hungrily, and it’s … nice. It was good before and this is better; not passionate or heated or demanding, but definitely pleasant.

I’m thinking too much; I’m not in the moment. I run my hand through his hair, gripping the back of his head to take things up a notch. Surely we’ve got enough in common and sufficient chemistry to wake the butterflies up any time now. He responds by sucking on my bottom lip and putting a hand on my knee then sliding it up higher. I wonder if he’ll keep going, but then he pulls away and looks into my eyes.

Can he tell my butterflies are AWOL? He smiles shyly and God, is he cute. Why am I not swooning?

“Maybe we should take this someplace more private.” There’s a question in his eyes, but he’s not finished. “Ashley, can I ask you something first?”

“Sure,” I answer with trepidation, suddenly on the spot.

He takes a breath and looks down at his hands. “I told you before that I’m kind of an old-fashioned guy. I know the way it works on dating apps—you play the field. You have to when so many people ghost you or end up being completely fake or want to sell you something. Seriously, I went out with this woman who took out flyers mid-date and tried to get me into a timeshare.”

He looks so earnestly surprised that I let out a giggle. After the wild few months I’ve had, this doesn’t shock me in the slightest.