Page 71 of Switched

He doesn’t seem as excited as I thought he’d be about spending time with her, especially if something physical actually happened.

“I’ll be fine,” she tells him, before she takes a sip of the water. “I should head home.”

“You could stay for dinner?” I offer, already knowing she’s going to refuse.

She shakes her head. “We have a whole system next door. I can’t be the one to mess it up. Thanks, for the offer.”

Next time, I promise myself.

“Then, I guess we’ll see you in the morning,” I tell her.

She nods, passing Scout back the towel. “Thanks for the workout.”

She’s quick to leave, and Rueben’s going to be mad that he missed seeing her, but I guess at least she’s coming back tomorrow, despite admitting there’s nothing in this house that needs to be cleaned.

I can't hold back a smile.

Our plan is working, I can feel it.

Chapter thirty-eight

Sapphire

I get outside, march down to the sidewalk, and pour the rest of the bottle of water over my head. It’s fucking cold, and it makes me gasp, but I need the shock, badly. I seriously need to remember these guys are not an option for a rebound, or a fling, or anything else.

I can’t think of anything worse than falling into bed with one of the sexiest men I’ve ever met, only to have him call me Scarlett.

The thought makes me shiver.

I need to get over my little crushes and push past this week.

I have a promotion to grab, and I won’t have time to think about guys once I step into the feature editor’s shoes. It’s not the kind of job I can phone in. I’ll have to be at the office more than I’ve ever been. I’ll have to work hard to prove myself.

It sounds exhausting, honestly, but I know that’s probably only because of how deflated I’m feeling.

A vacation sounds good right about now. A road trip to someplace relaxing, and a whole lot of time spent laying around doing nothing.

That’s what I want once this week is through, and I’ll find a way to get it.

I get to the driveway of Scarlett’s rented house, and I decide to go around back instead of trudging through the front door with wet sneakers and a drippy face.

It’s a bad decision, but I don’t realize that until I see Karma’s thin frame leaning over the fence on the back door’s porch. She blows out a breath and lowers her cigarette as she leans back and looks my way. One overplucked eyebrow raised, she gives me a curious look.

“Did those next-door assholes give you a swirly, or something?”

I bite back on my initial response, which is to defend them.

“Or something,” I mutter, deciding vague and irritable is the way to go.

“I told you not to make that stupid bet,” she says as I sit down on the porch steps to take off the sneakers.

I don’t know how my feet got so damn wet. My shoulders are barely even a little bit damp, and my jeans are fine. But my head and my feet are soaked.

“Well, maybe next time, I’ll listen,” I tell Karma.

She snorts. “I fucking doubt it.”

I do, too, but I don’t tell her that.

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