Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Ben offers me his car to take me home but can’t manage to find his phone and is maybe a bit too inebriated to handle the logistics. Instead, I slip away when he goes to the bathroom. The nice man at the arrival loop outside gets me a cab.
The house is empty when I return to Notting Hill and peel myself out of my dress and into some pajamas. I pull my hair down, wipe off my makeup, and sit on the couch to watch some late-night TV. The red, angry outlines of my shoes are still scored into my feet.
One of those cringey “dating” hotline commercials comes on, which prompts a thought about what Jack is up to tonight. Out on a date maybe.
I heave myself off the couch and pretend the thought of Jack hooking up with someone else doesn’t make me want to burn down a small village.
As I’m contemplating scrounging for leftovers in the fridge, I get a text.
Nate: You up?
26
IT’S PAST MIDNIGHT. ACCORDING TO ELIZA, THAT PLACES US IN booty-call territory. But Nate also happens to be a bartender, so if he was working tonight, he might just be getting off shift.
My fingers are a bit shaky as I type a response.
Me: Yes. Just got home.
Nate: Can I stop by?
Me: Sure, the guys are out.
Nate: See you in a few.
I don’t know what possessed me to add that second part. What does it matter that I’m here alone? Or why Nate would need to know that?
My head’s a mess.
Still, I brush my teeth, fix my hair, and throw on some jeans and a T-shirt before Nate knocks on the door. Unhappiness creases his handsome features, so I bring him up to my room when he says we need to talk.
“Sorry for the late hour,” he starts gruffly. “I came straight from work.”
“I figured. What’s up?”
Wary, I sit in my desk chair while he paces the floor, running his hands through his hair in a sort of agitated ritual. His black trousers and snug black tee, combined with the dark stubble shadowing his strong jaw, lend him an air of danger. This guy radiates sex appeal.
“Am I imagining this?” He glances at me, pausing for a second before resuming his path across my room.
“This being…?”
“You and me. What’s happening between us.”
Oh.
“I text you more than I text Yvonne,” he mutters when I don’t respond. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know that I can answer that.”
“You’re five years younger than me. That’s too young, isn’t it?”
This is more emotion than I’ve seen from him ever. Though he’s still guarded, this display seems like a culmination of long-lingering frustration.
“Too young for what?”
“You know what.”
“Yeah, okay.” I feel myself blushing. We’re past the point of playing dumb, I guess. “I’m not sure what to say. I’m sort of in a tough spot here. I mean…Yvonne.”
“Right. Exactly.” Nate turns away. Paces a few more steps. “Theoretically, though. If we’re being hypothetical.”
I get to my feet. His nervous energy has become contagious as I start to wander the room.
“Do I like you? Is that what you came here to find out?”
He answers with a heated stare.
“Sure, I guess I have a crush.”
In my defense, I think it’s the half-dozen glasses of champagne that glossed my lips enough to let the admission slip out.
I pause at the foot of my bed. “Or did. But we talked about this.”
Nate approaches me. “Right.”
“Because you have a girlfriend.”
He moves closer. “Right.”
“We agreed.”
Until he’s standing right in front of me. “We did.”
Reaching for me, Nate places his warm palm against my cheek. His face hovers above mine as my breath catches. He’s so good-looking it makes my heart pound.
I want to reach for him. To grab him as if to say, Hurry up already. If you want me, take me. Put me out of my misery.
But I don’t.
“We can’t do this, Nate.”
I break away, crossing the room to put some necessary distance between us. I can’t trust myself in his proximity, because I do want this. Him. I have since the moment I saw him under the cheap stage lights of that pub. But crushing on a taken guy is one thing. It’s harmless.
Acting on that crush is not.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to be that girl.”
His voice is low, tortured. “I’m not in love with Yvonne.”
That doesn’t make it any better. If anything, it might be worse.
“You’re still with her.” Irritation colors my voice. This guy is so frustrating. “As long as that’s the case, I don’t want to be in the middle of it.”
Nate is temptation on a heaping plate of mischief, and I see no other way to remove that temptation than to take myself out of the situation. Even if that means losing a friend.
Because really, how is it friendship if we only end up trying to make out with each other at every encounter?