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Her eyes, the eyes that moments ago were filled with heat and desire, go cold, but beneath that, there’s a hint of something more: fear.
I let go before she can pull away.
“Lola, we need to talk.”
“Please change the wi-fi back,” she says, her voice low and embarrassed, as she bends to put feet into the shorts that she found.Fuck fuck fuck!
“Lola!”She looks up at me once more, snapping a bra behind her back.
“This was a mistake. I . . . I needed a distraction. So, thanks for that. But I’m leaving now.”
And with her words, the phone stops ringing, the room silent once again as her eyes meet mine.
“Later, Ben,” she says, turning around, her shoes in hand, her shirt somehow having found its way to her body.
And I watch her go.
I watch her walk to the door, watch her unlock it, open the door, and step onto the landing.
And when the door slams behind her, my phone beeps with a text.
I glare over to the wretched thing that just ruined what should have been fucking amazing, my cock still hard despite the chaos of the last two minutes.
Missed call from Tanner.
New Text from Tanner: Bro, stop avoiding me. You gotta come to Mom’s party. Hat told Jordan you’ve got a new girl—bring her too.
I groan in frustration, acknowledging that even though my little brother is on the other side of the fucking state, he still has the ability to cockblock me.
Twenty-Five
-Lola-
The worst partof my new apartment is the roller coaster that is Ben Coleman.
The best part about my new apartment is Hattie Jones, a roller coaster in and of herself.
She’s been over a few times to chat, to grab a coffee or a treat. And while she kind of terrifies me with her blatantly in-my-face friendship—something I’ve never experienced in a life of arranged friends and faked friendly acquaintances—it’s been nice to have her here.
A friend.
It’s . . . new.
At the risk of making myself sound like a lonely loser, I haven’t had many of those. Especially those who have zero interest in using my connection to further their own career.
The downside of Hattie: she’s nosy as can be. And now she’s invested in the non-relationship between her best friend slash boss and me.
More than once, she’s asked me what’s going on with Ben and me, like she knows more than I’ve told her myself.
Part of me wonders why Ben would tell her about what happened between us. The other part of me is dying to knowwhat he told herand if that means anything.
But New Lola doesn’t dig and doesn’t play into the games of annoying men, despite how they might make the butterflies in her belly flutter and her panties get just a little wet every time I think about those kisses . . . and theotherkind of kiss he gave me.
Regardless of my putting an end to my people-pleasing ways, I don’t think there’s a single human who can say no to Hattie when she has an idea.
That’s why I’ve found myself out to lunch with her, the “We’ll be back” sign on the bakery flipped as we both sit at the little ocean-side bistro, a salad in front of me and chicken fingers in front of Hattie.
“I so wish I could have a drink right now,” she says, eyeing some fabulous-looking blue drink in a tall glass that’s being delivered to a tourist. I follow the drink to its destination—an exhausted-looking mother sitting at a table with a crew of sun-burned kids and an equally exhausted-looking father.
