Scratching my head, I return to my bike and drop a hand to the seat, smacking it hard. Why would he leave without saying goodbye? Who does that?
I check my phone, but my text app mocks me with its emptiness.
I’m tempted to stomp my foot. To pull on my hair. But I do none of those things because I’m all stomped out.
I exhale heavily, shaking my head in frustration.
My phone trills, and since I’m sure it’s Tom—wait, he’s Kyler to me now because Tom is a good guy and no Tom would ever ditch his date—I don’t even look at the name.
I’m a dragon, breathing fire. “You better tell me a giant eagle captured you in his talons and carried you away, because that’s the only reason I can figure why you’d leave without saying goodbye.”
Tom isn’t the one who speaks though. Christine coughs, then says, “And how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?”
All the air leaks out of me. “Oh. Hi. Sorry.”
“Things are going well tonight, I take it?”
“It wasn’t a date,” I say, even though five minutes ago, it felt like a tremendous one.
Christine is silent for a moment. “I didn’t ask if it was a date,” she says gently, and I pace down the street, sidestepping a young couple making googly, I’m-going-to-get-you-naked-any-second eyes at each other.
“Sorry. I thought you asked how my date was. Anyway, he left. He just freaking left.”
“The guy you’re helping? Your muse? Your project? You’re dating him now?”
I shake my head, breathing hard. Seething. I stop in front of a boutique selling fifty-dollar aprons with sayings like Is it wine-o-clock? “We were at Tavendish Ranch,” I explain.
“I love that place. David and I went there for an anniversary trip. It’s so romantic.”
“It wasn’t romantic,” I insist. “I’m just giving him . . .” But I trail off because whatever I’m going to say next feels personal. I’m giving him advice? Tips? Strategies?
I’ve morphed from hanging out with the man the angels dropped on my lawn to coaching him on how to woo women. Only, it didn’t feel like coaching tonight. It felt like talking, like a real conversation between just the two of us. It didn’t feel like I was the dating doctor or he was the patient. We were simply two people having fun together.
“You’re starting to like him, aren’t you?” Christine asks.
I sigh heavily, close my eyes, and let my forehead fall against the window of the shop. “Yes, but that’s foolish, Christine. He’s madly in love with his college girlfriend.” A stabbing pain shoots through my chest.
“That stinks big-time,” she says.
“And you know how it goes. After Anthony and the torch he carried for Melinda, I can’t let myself crush on this guy.” I scoff at my own dumb self. “Crush on him more than I already am,” I correct.
“That was pretty awful how it turned out with Anthony.”
He didn’t even cheat on me, that’s the thing. His affection for his ex was a long, persistent soundtrack underscoring our relationship. I ignored it for far too long, the little comments he’d make about her, the name-dropping in conversations.
Oh, she’s just his reference point, I’d tell myself. She’s simply his last relationship, so it’d be normal to mention that she also enjoyed Trevor Noah’s memoir when I raved about how much I dug it. Besides, he liked the book too, and we even discussed it over dinner.
But in retrospect, was he discussing it with me, or with the woman he wished I were?
Eventually, the Melinda echo became a calling he couldn’t ignore. I’m going to try again with Melinda. Have a go with her. I’m sorry to hurt you, but I have to do this for me.
“But the good thing is this,” Christine continues, putting on her therapist cap. “We can’t control our feelings, but we can control what we do about them. There are plenty of good men out there, and if you’re feeling emotions for this guy who’s unavailable, maybe don’t spend so much time with him.”
I recoil, snapping my head up and opening my eyes. That idea sounds abhorrent. Even after tonight. Even after he left for no reason. I like spending time with Tom. But I also need him. I need this crazy quest he’s on, desperately—it’s feeding my scenes, and Bruce liked my early drafts, so much he wants to show the first two episodes to network brass ASAP. ASAP being his word.
“I think the key is to separate these silly emotions from the task at hand. Who needs emotions anyway? Besides, I don’t have time for them. I have a show to save.” I’m marching back to my bike, determined to get to the bottom of what happened tonight, when a new notification blinks at me.
It’s a text.
From Tom.
“Hey, I should go,” I tell Christine. “Everything okay?”
“Definitely. I was just calling to tell you I’d be in town in a couple of days for a conference. We can train for our triathlon in person then.”
I laugh. “And have lunch.”
“That too.”
I smile. “Can’t wait.”
We hang up, but before I can click on his text, I bump into a gal I know from the next town, Arden, who runs my favorite bookstore in Lucky Falls.
“Hey, you. Are you okay?” She’s always been keenly observant.
“Just. Blurgh. Yes. Fine,” I spit out, like words are new to me.
She arches a brow. “That doesn't sound fine.”
I sigh heavily. “It’s just . . . ugh . . . men. Right? What are we supposed to do with men?”
Laughing, she answers. “That's what books are for.”
“Are they better in books?”
“Men are almost always better in books. But the real thing can be good too. Sometimes they just need to be put in their place and told what to do.”
“Yes,” I say with certainty. “You’re right.”
“Good luck, and be sure to come by to pick up the new Tiffany Haddish. I’m holding an autographed copy for you.”
“She’s one of my favorite comedians. It’s a pickup date,” I say as she leaves, and I pounce on Tom’s message, bracing myself for bad news and hoping for good.
Tom: I had to take off. Work call in Singapore. Thanks for a great night.
I raise the phone over my head, tempted to chuck it to the sidewalk and smash it to smithereens.
Because this tells me nothing. This is the most perplexing message in the history of text messages. But I’m not going to stand on the street wondering about it. He asked me for dating advice, and he’s going to get a piece of my mind.
I hop on my bike, snap on my helmet, and pedal like hell through town. I really ought to be huffing and puffing to match my furious mood, but electric bikes do the work for you, so by the time I reach his hotel a mile away, I haven’t even broken a sweat. I lock up my bike and realize I don’t know what room he’s in. I don’t bother with texting. I call him.
“Hello?” He sounds wary.
“What’s your room number?”
“One-twelve. Why?”
I hang up, march across the hilly property of the inn, and bang the hell out of the door.
He opens it.
Shirtless.
He’s stinking shirtless.
My stomach swoops in excitement, zipping down and up like a flying pirate ship at an amusement park. Those abs are traceable with my tongue. The grooves, dear God, the grooves. My fingers itch to explore them.
“Put a shirt on,” I snap.
“Why? It’s hot.”
I flap my hand toward his room. “You have the AC on.”
“Fine.” He grabs a T-shirt and tugs it over his head, and I instantly regret my request and mourn the loss of the delicious view.
He scratches his jaw. “Are you okay?”
Standing on the porch of his cabin-like room, I grab my phone from my pocket and shake it. “Is your phone broken?”
“No.”
“Is your brain broken, then?”
“No,” he says, scoffing.
“Were y
ou raised by wolves?”
“No!”
“You. Left. Me. In the bathroom,” I add, my eyes widening as if to make my point.
He shrugs. “But we weren’t going home together, so what’s the problem? I had a call to make. To Singapore.”
“Oh, well. Since it’s to Singapore, that’s totally fine. Let’s not have the Singaporians wait for you. Just let your friend wonder if you were freaking dead.”
“But I’m not dead,” he says, staring at me with intense eyes. “So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is,” I say, practically flapping my hands in frustration, “you are such a guy!”
“I am a guy!”
“I know, but you don’t have to act like one all the time.” I cross my arms so I don’t huff and puff and blow him down. Or really, push his chest and then thrill at the spark between us.
Except there’s no spark between us. The spark is between me and my imagination, and I will not let my burgeoning and unrequited feelings get the better of me. Besides, this isn’t about me. I signed up to help him. And the man fucked up tonight. I imagine Cassandra, and I soften. “You don’t take off when a date ends.”
“You said you were heading home,” he says, sounding genuinely confused. “I don’t get it, Finley. It’s like I’m doing everything wrong with you.”
I grab his arm, feeling bad now. “You’re not doing it wrong.”
“It seems like it.”
I try to explain as gently as possible. “You have to wait for your date. You don’t just walk away.”
“I’m sorry. It was getting . . . confusing. And I didn’t know how to end the date.”
“How was it confusing?” I ask, confused too.
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Just tell me how you want me to end a date.”
“How do you think a date should end?”
He moves closer to me. “Obviously, the answer is . . . not how I did it tonight. So how do you want me to end it?”
“You end it with a goodbye. A proper one. Sometimes, when it’s a great date, you end it with a great goodbye.”
He shuffles closer, moving into my space now, dangerously close. I should back up, stand against the railing or walk along the porch and gaze at the night sky. Instead, I stay in place, letting him come nearer.
“So tell me, since you’re the expert. What’s a great goodbye?” His eyes darken.
I square my shoulders, trying to ignore my rising temperature. “You kiss,” I say, and it comes out way more vulnerable than I intended. “When you have a great, amazing date, that’s when you kiss the girl.”
“Is that so?” He steps even closer.
Crickets chirp. Stars twinkle. The night air is charged, and it feels complicit.
“Yes, that’s so.” The words come out choppy. Inside, I’m shaking. I don’t know what’s happening, or why he’s so damn near to me.
He flicks a strand of my hair off my shoulder. “Let me see if I can do this right.”
He slides his hand around my neck. My body sings hallelujah. When did I become so easy? But his touch is easy. It’s gentle and firm, it’s tender and hungry, and then it’s more than his hand. His body slides closer, erasing the last bit of distance between us.
His head dips to mine, and I have several seconds to say stop, to say no, to say this isn’t how we practice.
But I don’t say any of that.
A soft breath betrays me, escaping my lips like an inviting sigh. His hand is firm, cupping my neck, and already this almost-kiss is a slow-motion extravaganza. My heart beats rocket-fast, thundering in my chest. My skin tingles as he raises his other hand, gliding his thumb over my lower lip. It’s erotic and sweet at the same damn time. A hint, a tease. Sparks of pleasure tango across my skin as my eyes float closed.
He slides his lips to mine, and I melt into the most dizzying sensation.
He brushes ever so gently against my mouth, and I gasp, a sound that says do it again, do it more, come closer.
He heeds the call, moving against me and kissing more firmly. A hint of his tongue. A nibble on the corner of my mouth. He slants his face, dusting his delicious lips against mine.
It’s the most wondrous kiss, but a few seconds in, I become painfully aware that my arms are hanging limply at my sides.
I don’t know what to do with my hands.
I mean, I do. I want to lift them, thread them through his hair, learn how soft it is. Would that turn him on, light him up? Would he like fingers in his hair as much as I’d enjoy dragging mine through it?
He doesn’t seem to suffer from the same uncertainty. His hand curls firmly around my neck. A pulse beats harder in my body, zipping down my chest, settling between my legs.
This kiss could last all night, for all I care. I could live in this slow, luxurious dance.
But there’s that matter of my hands.
If I rope them in his hair, it’ll look like I don’t understand the boundaries. I can’t fall under his spell while I’m tutoring him. This kiss can’t go anywhere. And I’m dangerously close to letting on how much I want this goodnight kiss lesson to continue. How much I crave an all-night-long make-out session with this man.
I end the kiss.
He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. His eyes look dazed. Was he as affected by that practice kiss as I was? Did it turn him on to no end? I’m dying to cast my eyes downward, but I won’t cross that line of propriety.
Swallowing, he steps away, his back hitting the wall of his hotel room. He breathes out hard, a heavy sigh. “Did I do that wrong too?” His tone is honest, and he seems to truly want to know.
“No.”
“So I did it right?” The start of a satisfied grin forms on his face, and I’m instantly jealous. That grin is for Cassie. He wants to know if he has the right moves for her.
“You know you did.”
“Do I?”
“You said you were good in bed, and I’m sure Cassandra will love it when you kiss her again.”
His eyes narrow, and he nods. “I want to make sure these practice sessions are working.”
“They will when you learn to end a date properly.” My voice wobbles, and I speak from the heart. “Don’t leave a girl in the bathroom. Even if it was a practice date, it made me feel stupid. It made me feel like you didn’t care about me. It made me feel like everything we’d talked about was unimportant to you.”
“That’s not true. I loved talking to you, and everything you said was important.” He drags a hand roughly through his hair. “I don’t think I realized the effect it would have—me taking off. Cassie never mentioned it after I had to leave at the end of her cast party.”
I snap my gaze back toward him, keying in on what he just said. “What did you say? You left her at the end of her party?”
“She was changing. My buddy was coming to town. His flight was early. I had to go.” He scratches his jaw. “So I texted her.”
The sky splits, and the gong clangs. “After you slept with her?” I ask because I need to be certain.
“Yeah.”
“And you guys were both virgins,” I say, like I need to remind him, because evidently, I do.
“Do you want to keep rubbing that in my face?”
“I don’t give a flying fig if you were a virgin till your sophomore year of college. It wouldn't bother me if you were still one. But you were one then, and so was she and . . .” I stare at him, waiting for understanding to flash across his eyes.
“What’s going on?” His eyes search my face, confusion in them.
I purse my lips, feeling Cassie’s mortification, her devastation. This man has no clue. He is that oblivious. He seems spot-on at understanding women half the time, and woefully bad the rest of it. “Tom, she didn’t break up with you because she thought you were a slacker. She broke up with you because you broke her heart.”
“No.” He whips his head back and forth, taps his chest with his finger. “She broke mine.”
<
br /> “It might have felt that way, but I’m pretty sure you sliced hers in two first.”
14
Tom
It’s a little hard for me to think about Cassandra with Finley in my hotel room. The crazy-haired blonde with the delicious lips instantly makes herself at home, plunking her little purse on the table and flopping down on the love seat. I sit across from her because if I’m next to her, I won’t be able to think about anything but kissing her again.
That kiss fried circuits in my brain. I’ve never had a kiss like that before.
Not with anyone. Definitely not with Cassandra.
And I’m honestly not thinking about Cassandra anymore because Finley’s all I can think about.
Except now I need to think about Cassie because Finley won’t let it go. And what if she’s right?
“Why didn’t you mention that teeny little detail?” she presses.
I search for an answer, but honestly, it’s simple. “It didn’t seem like a big deal. She didn’t say a thing about me texting her goodbye when she dumped me.”
As Cassie’s name drifts over my lips, it feels weirder to say. Since I can’t stop staring at Finley’s lips and remembering the way they felt. I want to taste her sweet mouth again, to feel her melt against me like she did on the porch, like she’d never been kissed in that kind of heart-stopping way. But judging from the horrified look on her face, Finley’s not thinking about me that way.
I try to erase that hot-as-hell moment from my mind as she stares at me with the widest eyes. “You didn’t think it was a big deal? That was absolutely why she broke up with you!”
I recoil. “No, that’s not it. She said it was because I was a slacker.”
“You were a slacker in not saying goodbye properly to her.”
I repeat Cassie’s breakup words. They were clear and simple. A blueprint for what I needed to do. Try again when you get your act together. Show up when you know what you want.
Finley lets out a long, frustrated groan, shoveling her hands through her hair, messing it up even more. My eyes drift toward her hair, and now I want to get my hands in it and mess it up too.
“You took off after sex, Tom,” Finley says, exasperation thick in her tone.
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