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The one my father dearest left money for when he couldn’t be bothered to save Ivy.
I don’t hassle with opening the door for Mia. I walk around to the driver’s side and fling my own wide before taking a seat and revving the engine to life.
“Where are we going?” Mia asks.
I never noticed how annoying her voice was before. “Nowhere. You are going home.”
Her face crinkles faintly next to her eyes, where the Botox has dissolved a bit between injections. “I thought—”
“I don’t care what you thought.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I mutter, drawing out the sound with another rev of my engine.
I was supposed to get laid tonight.
I have been so busy that I have not been with someone for a long time. I thought this plan of having an old prep-school classmate come with me would kill two birds with one stone. One, I would throw Payton off her game and be happy to piss her off, and two, I get my dick sucked.
Neither of which happened.
Or will happen, in Mia’s case.
I really played this one wrong.
“Why are you in such a bad mood?” she asks, pouting.
“You want to talk to me? After calling me a dick?”
“Um.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“I just don't see why we can’t have fun.” She leans over the console, hands resting on my thigh. “You seem stressed. Do you want me to help?”
Her hand starts to creep up, but it’s not the hand I crave.
I imagine Payton sitting in that seat, moving her hand onto my leg.
Finally, my dick starts to spring to life.
Fuck. How do I fix this runaway Payton train in my head? I look down at Mia’s hand. Being anywhere with her, let alone fucking her, is a terrible idea.
Right now, the only thing I want to do is grab a drink alone.
I lower my hand to my lap, and Mia’s perfectly veneered smile lights the car. She thinks I’m about to say yes, but she is grossly mistaken.
“Remove your hand, or I’ll remove it for you.”
When she doesn’t move, I do it for her and put it back into her own lap.
Then without another word, I start to drive her back to her apartment.
Never call an ex. Too complicated. It’s never what you truly desire . . .
I keep driving until I pull up in front of her high-rise.
She pouts. Again. “I don’t get you. You tell me to come over and say we are going out. That you just need to hear some presentation you didn’t even explain. Then you make me listen to some woman ramble on in some speech on Carl Jung. One—who the hell is Carl Jung? I still don’t know. And two—are you fucking the help, Trent?”
