He worked an eye open and squinted at the screen. Aster was out and she wanted help. Tommy wasn’t surprised to see that Layla had been quick to commit, but he had meant what he’d said—he was washing his hands of all of it.
He set the phone to silent, pushed it under the pillow, and focused on the pretty girl pressed up against him, the tips of her long nails gliding over his hip and working their way under his waistband with the sole intent of pleasing him.
It had started in the bar, where they’d shared a few drinks that ultimately led to a few hungry kisses. At the time, it had felt so good just to be with a girl again—to lose himself in the softness of that sweet-scented flesh. And while this girl could never compete with Layla, no girl could, he needed to accept the fact that Layla was no longer an option and it was time to move on with his life.
But now, thanks to the text, Layla had once again hijacked his brain. It was like she’d been living there, rent free, since the moment they met, and just when he thought he’d made a significant move toward getting over her, she was back. What would it finally take for him to be done with her?
He surveyed his surroundings—the building was nice, even boasted a doorman and an elevator, from what he could remember. The kind of upscale amenities Tommy’s shithole was lacking. Still, it was a hell of a mess. Every available surface was piled high with clothes, shoes, magazines, candy wrappers, hair dryers, perfume—there was even a purple bong on the dresser near the bed. Tommy hadn’t gotten high since high school. Not that he was opposed to it, but it was probably better avoided. He needed to stay focused, and pot made him lazy and paranoid.
He lowered his lids. God, she had talented hands, though what was her name again? Tanya? Tabitha? Teresa? Started with a T. Or at least he thought it did.
“Hey, Tommy—you’re not going to fall asleep again, are you?”
His eyes snapped open.
Again?
His mind reeled back to the n
ight before as he struggled to remember the chain of events. They’d staggered back to her apartment, kissing furiously as his hands roamed greedily over her dress, imagining the treasures that waited beneath.
She’d pulled away with a grin, moving in a way she probably considered seductive, but from Tommy’s vantage point looked wobbly and unsure. She’d teetered on her heels, threw her head back, and laughed, revealing a lovely expanse of white throat that yielded to the kind of abundant cleavage that always rendered him speechless. Then she’d flung off her heels, laughing even harder when they hit opposite walls, and pushed him back on her bed among a collection of incomprehensible stuffed animals (what was it with girls and cartoon plushies?), and threw herself right on top of him.
When his head hit the pillow, he’d closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. For such a messy room, her sheets were surprisingly soft and clean, smelling vaguely of vanilla and sweetness and girl, and then . . .
And then . . . nothing.
Tommy had fallen asleep.
With a swipe, he deleted the message and pushed his phone off the edge of the mattress. Satisfied when it landed with a muffled thud on the carpet, Tommy rolled over to face her, determined to make amends.
Aster was on her own.
Layla too.
Tommy was committed to doing whatever it took to move on, and this was the first positive step toward making that happen.
“I don’t even know what to say. . . .” He gazed at the beautiful girl before him.
“Don’t say anything,” she purred, pouting adorably as she pressed her body flush against his, her lips trailing the length of his neck and all along his collarbone. “It’s not too late to make it up to me, you know.”
Allowing his eyes to feast on the bounty before him, Tommy could hardly believe his own ears when he said, “What do you say I take you to breakfast instead?”
She pulled away, her features arranged in an expression of disbelief. “You’re joking, right?” Her voice was equal parts curious and offended.
He shook his head. “Not a joke,” he said, hating himself for it, but saying it anyway.
There was a time, not so long ago, when he wouldn’t have even considered turning down an offer like the one she presented. But if he wanted to get over Layla, then he needed to do it the right way—by opening his life to new possibilities with new people. He needed to stop living behind the wall he’d built around himself. Sleeping with a girl whose name he couldn’t remember wouldn’t make him forget about Layla, and at the moment, that felt like the most urgent item on his list of things to accomplish.
“Come on.” He rolled off the mattress before her hand could inch any lower and he’d be rendered powerless against her. “I’ll take you to République. If you haven’t been, then you’re in for a treat. If you have . . .” He yanked on his jeans and pulled his T-shirt over his head. “Then you already know what I mean.”
She remained right in place, her fingers picking at the sheets as she contemplated the offer. “You’re a really strange guy. You know that, right?” Sighing in surrender, she picked her clothes off the floor and began to get dressed.
THIRTEEN
CAN’T FEEL MY FACE
Mateo stood before the intimidating crew of makeup artists, hairstylists, fashion stylists, art directors, assistants, and assistants to the assistants, people wielding large white disks that reflected and deflected the light, and others running around with meters that . . . well, he had no idea what they did. Point was, they all looked so purposeful and busy. It was crazy how many people it took to shoot an editorial when all that was required of him was to flash smoldering looks at the camera.