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“Ow.” I massage the flaming burst of soreness radiating through my muscles.
“Is that a yes?”
Sobriety begins to wash through me with each second that passes, but even half-drunk me knows sleeping outside tonight would be both stupid and dangerous.
Letting my arms fall at my sides, I say, “Fine.”
I follow him to his apartment, and once again everything is happening quickly yet in slow motion at the same time. It’s like I blinked and here we are, standing outside his paint-chipped door, his keys jangling in his hands and my heart hammering in my chest like it’s been doing all night.
Once we’re in, he holds the door for me and turns on the light. It’s what one could expect from a bachelor pad that’s just been moved into—a pile of boxes surrounding a camel-brown leather sofa, and of course, an extra-large flat screen TV already mounted on the wall. There’s a Ted’s pizza box on the floor, and the place smells vaguely like Ted’s when I open it up in the early afternoon.
My attention zeroes in on the small, misshapen sofa where I’m going to be sleeping if I’m not dumb.
Please, don’t let me be dumb tonight …
“Want a tour?” he asks.
A tour is good.
A tour is neutral.
A tour is better than all the other things that could potentially happen.
He proceeds to take me on one, though it’s kind of silly. The layout is a mirror image of mine—small living area, kitchen in back, steep staircase to the only bathroom and two cramped sleeping quarters.
As I stand in the doorway of his bedroom, admiring the lack of décor—it’s all boxes and a single mattress with a beige sheet and a pile of blankets, on the floor—he simply lingers, silently watching me.
He doesn’t try anything.
If anything, he keeps a conservative distance between us.
But Alec Mansfield being a respectable gentleman has to be an act.
“So … that’s it.” He stops and shrugs like everything’s totally normal, like he can’t feel the tension that’s been marinating between us all night.
I fully expected him to be making some kind of move on me by now, and the fact that he’s not has me feeling … some sort of way.
My skin prickles with both anticipation and trepidation before quickly cooling off. Maybe I pegged him all wrong tonight. Maybe we weren’t flirting. Maybe he wanted to get revenge on me by conning me into a “date” and rejecting me the first chance he gets. Though I haven’t exactly made a move so he hasn’t exactly rejected me yet …
Per usual, I’m getting ahead of myself.
While I’ve never told a soul in my life, I used to have the biggest crush on Alec—despite the hell he put me through. And right now, with all the beer coursing through my veins and him looking at me like he’s equal parts mystified by me and reining in his true intentions … a bunch of hot, sweaty hate sex feels like it might scratch an itch I’ve had almost my entire life.
An itch I’ve never been able to reach.
Until now.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” I say, marking the first time I haven’t snapped at him in the last ten minutes.
Alec sniffs. “You were always a terrible liar.”
He’s right. These places are about ten years from being a heap of rubble, on the ground.
Sucking on the inside of his cheek, his eyes squint into his trademark sexy smolder. With that single move, I’m feeling things in places I didn’t know existed, things I could never accurately articulate despite my robust vocabulary.
“I’m really glad you came tonight.” Alec’s voice is whisper soft yet full of confidence. “Half of me expected you to ghost me.”
“I should have.”
He chuffs.
“For the record, I only came because you promised closure,” I add. “If anything, I feel like you sliced open an old wound instead.”
Alec’s head cocks to the side and I’m fully expecting him to make some kind of joke about being a doctor and stitching me up.
Only he lets that ship sail.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“For what?” I ask, because any apology worth its weight should be specific.
“I’m sorry you mistook my desperate grabs for your attention for cruelty.”
His apology renders me speechless as he closes the space between us.
All he wanted my attention?
That’s all it was?
Why?
He could have any girl he wanted in school—and he did.
He had them all plus several from the next towns over.
“You seriously expect me to believe you were picking on me because you secretly liked me?” I let out a haughty laugh. “That’s the most cliché thing I’ve ever heard. If you wanted me, you could’ve just said so.”
“You didn’t want me though.”
If he only knew …
“I figured any attention from you was better than none,” he adds. “And you’re right. It’s cliché. Tale as old as time. The schoolyard bully picking on his crush.”
