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“You don’t know him yourself?”
“I mean, I've met him. Just not that well. He’s Tom’s friend. He says he’s a nice guy.”
“Oh God,” I groan. “Nice guy. That sounds like a red flag at this point.”
“You’re nuts,” she laughs. “Tom has good taste.”
“Tom? Girl, face it. Men havenoclue when it comes to what women want in a man. How does he even know him?”
“They met at some self-empowerment camp for men that he did a few years ago.”
“Oh, God. Red flag number two.”
“Stop it,” she chuckles.
“Do you have a pic so I can at least tell if I’m vaguely attracted to him?”
“Hang on.”
“Oh, wait a minute,” I say as the pic comes through. “I did chat to him. It must have lasted like three minutes. I barely remember what we even talked about.”
In fact, just looking at him reminds me how unmemorable chatting to him face to face was, though in fairness to him, that could have been because I was still reeling from the visceral effect that talking to Grey had on my insides, an effect I never really talked to Carrie about.
She knows we had that dance and she knows there was some tension between us but after the way things ended, I was too hurt and humiliated to talk about him, so when she asked about him after she got back from her honeymoon, I told her he’d left and insinuated that nothing had happened between us. I’m guessing Grey was similarly discreet with Tom as well.
“Well, you left quite an impression, Indie.”
“Come on. Let’s face it. It doesn’t take much to impress heterosexual men, though, does it? I mean, a pulse seems adequate these days.”
Carrie giggles. “Stop trying to worm your way out of this. Look, you don’t have to go back to his place.”
“Oh, trust me, I won’t be.”
“Just get out a bit. You’ve been through enough shit this year. It’s time to have some fun again. Just think of it as dating practice. He’s really nice, apparently.”
I’m sure he is. He could be the nicest man in the world. It’s not him. It’s not even about the socially unbearable hell of going on a semi-blind date.
My mind is still wrapped up in someone else.
As I pour the tea through the filter nestled in my large handmade mug and place it back onto the wicker place mat on my messy coffee table, my mind wanders to Greyson and to what an ass I made of myself that morning after he spent the night at my place.
The nightmare shook me… and then the touch of his hand.
Only it wasn’thishand that made me flinch—in the blurry post-nightmare confusion, I mixed up his with someone else’s.
He must think I’m a basket case after the way I panicked and threw him out.
Hell, maybe I am.
I guess that would make two of us, by all accounts.
It’s probably all for the best. I’m not sure that two fucked-up people like us are even capable of a harmonious relationship.
So then why can I still smell the scent of him in my apartment? Feel his presence? He was there less than twenty-four fucking hours, but it’s as if he imprinted on the damn place or something. I keep seeing him in various places, remembering where he dropped his clothes, where he kissed me, where he fucked me. I've washed my sheets twice at this point just to get the energy of the way he fucked me out of them.
Tingling warmth radiates throughout my body as I think of how we ended up in bed, how he leaned back and watched me as I rode him.
What’s more, I wasn’t even that self-conscious. I felt…safe… and desperate to feel him deep inside me. And then he wrapped his arms around me so tightly that I couldn’t move, but I didn’t want to, nor did I feel like I was being held, that I was unable to get away.
