The realization makes my stomach flutter even before he leans in, bringing his nose inches from mine as he whispers, “All right. You win, but I have a condition, too.”
“I would expect nothing less,” I murmur, marveling at how good he smells. And how much the spicy, fresh, lightly sweet scent of his cologne makes me want to lean in and lick him.
“If your feelings change between now and then,” he says, “you have to be honest with me about it. None of that ‘putting blinders on and pushing through to hit my goal as stated no matter what’ stuff you do. This isn’t something that should be forced, not any part of it. If we get to our one night and you decide you want to bail, that’s totally fine. Same if you wake up the next morning, look over at my adorable face sleeping on the other pillow, and decide youdon’twant to kick me out of bed and never see me again. It’s not weak or wishy-washy to change your mind, you know. It’s normal. And human.”
I’m not sure what’s more disconcerting—the way his hands have settled on my knees, setting off a tingle explosion, or the terror inspired by the thought of beingthatvulnerable with another person, even an old friend.
Harlow, Cam, and Evie are the bedrocks of my life, but even with my closest friends, there are things I keep to myself. I don’t want them to know how much being a late bloomer bothers me sometimes or how much I wish I understood modern mating rituals the way they do. If they realized how often I feel like an outsider looking in, wondering if she’ll ever be the main character instead of the quirky sidekick with her head in a laptop and a witty punchline every now and then, they would feel sorry for me.
And that would kill me.
I can’t handle pity or empathy or any of that shit. I don’t want to be “poor Jess.” I’d rather be weird Jess or hardcore Jess or Jess, the girl you turn to when you need brutal honesty softened by a dollop of nerd humor.
Or worst-case scenario, Jess, the last woman you want to fuck with inanycapacity.
Given the choice between villain or victim, I’m pretty sure I’d choose villain. Sure, being the all-knowing, all-evil Eye of Sauron inTheLord of the Ringsworld looks like a drag, but not as much of a drag as being one of the helpless hobbits limping across Middle Earth barefoot and besieged by bullshit on all sides. Not only do the poor hobbits get the absolute worst of everything; they’re so damaged by the end of the quest that they don’t fit in over in Hobbiton anymore. Their home, the most precious thing to their people and culture, no longer feels like home, which basically means they’ve lost everything they fought to save, even the selves they were before the bad guys put them through the wringer.
And screw that. Screw it hard.
I’m never going to be a hobbit. I’m never going to wake up next to Sam, fresh from sleep, with my guard down and lingering sex feelings making me do stupid things. I’ve seen enough of Evie’s and Harlow’s morning-after grins to know that sex can cause an altered mental state, one that strips away your protective instincts and leaves you weak and goofy in dangerous ways. Once, Harlow went outside in her pajama pants to grab coffee for her and Derrick, and while that wouldn’t be strange for me or even Evie, Harlow never goes anywhere without being dressed to impress. That a close encounter with a penis could cause her to behave so completely out of character is a warning I would be stupid to ignore.
But I know Sam’s expressions as well as he knows mine.
He hashisstubborn face on now.
If I don’t agree to his condition, this thing is over before it begins, and I really don’t want that. I want to kiss Sam again—and hopefully do a lot more than kissing—but I also want that time with him. I want to catch up on his news, hear about his adventures, and send him off into the rest of his life with forgiveness for ghosting me the way he did. If I’m honest with myself, losing Sam hurt. Not knowing what the hell happened to him has been a scratchy tag in my collar, making my neck itch for way too long.
It’s time to put all that behind us, and what better way to do that than with a couple weeks of fun and friendship followed by a double V-Card annihilation to send us into the second half of our twenties in style?
I can stick to that plan, no problem.
And on the off chance that Idochange my mind, I don’t have to tell Sam about it. Yes, I’m usually honest to a fault and a promise keeper from way back, but if I have to embrace my inner villain and lie a little, I will. After ditching me without so much as a “see ya later, suckass,” a little turnaround is fair play here.
Slipping one hand behind my back, I cross my fingers and thrust my other hand his way. “All right. It’s a deal.”
His eyes narrow. “Yeah? You promise?”
“I promise,” I echo, crossing my fingers even tighter. “We can start tomorrow afternoon if you’re free.”
“Sounds great.” His gives my hand a firm squeeze, making my heart do a little flip that I choose to ignore.
It’s probably the sugar making me fluttery. Or the beer. Or the combination of the two. What was I thinking, mixing cake, coconut lager, and macarons? Birthday celebration or not, that’s just gross.
“We could hit this new pinball place I read about on the flight over,” he says. “It’s in Brooklyn. Two floors of vintage pinball machines and a coffee shop in the basement for when you need to rest your punching fingers. Seems like a good time and right up our alley.”
“Oh yeah, that place is the bomb. I took the little girl I babysit there a few weeks ago and we had a blast, but we can’t go tomorrow. I already have other plans. Plans that could benefit from an extra pair of hands. If you’d like to learn more, be here at three tomorrow and wear something you don’t mind possibly being destroyed.”
“Color me intrigued. I’ll be here with bells on,” he says with a bemused twist of his lips I don’t understand until he adds, “Since when did you start babysitting? I thought you loathed children.”
“I’ve never loathed children.”
“You used to call them ‘booger eaters’ and made us move towels that time a family with little kids set up next to us on the beach.”
“Well, to be fair, theyarebooger eaters, that’s been proven by science, and that particular family was the worst,” I say. “Remember, the parents gave the boy a giant squirt gun and turned him loose on the beach populace at large and they let their little girl play an out-of-tune ukulele for hours. In public. Hours. What kind of monsters do shit like that?” I shrug. “And in any event, Crissy isn’t like the other booger eaters. She’s brilliant and funny and a very good friend. She might even be coming with me to get my tattoo this summer. Assuming they let kids in the studio and her mom gives us the okay. Natalie is pretty cool about stuff like that, but she’s not a fan of blood or exposing Crissy to the sight of blood, and I heard you do bleed a little when you’re getting a tattoo.”
“A little, but it’s not bad,” he says, nodding over his shoulder. “I have a piece on my back.”
“Oh yeah? Of what?”