Page 46 of The Summer I Destroyed You

“Shouldn’t you be on your date?” he finally asks.

Ah, there it is. That’s what I wanted from him—a reaction.

“That’s not until tomorrow,” I reply. “I need a day to get everything waxed anyway.”

He hits a button and the tape measure whips shut. He rises and the distance between us seems to shrink a little, though he hasn’t moved any closer.

“Are you actually going to sleep with this guy?” he demands. And then he does move closer, until we are a few steps apart. I sit up straighter. The air between us is so thick I can’t take a full breath.

I don’t know if it’s tension or anticipation, but I’m already glancing at his belt buckle, already picturing the way his jeans would slide to mid-thigh if I undid it. I bet he’d be hard in seconds, and despite my previous comments about his size, I’m guessing I’d be impressed.

“I’m sure you have some kind of tedious, backward belief that women should wait for marriage while you yourself should not,” I reply with a roll of the eyes. “But I don’t want to get married, and I’m not going to apologize to you if I want to get laid.”

“There’s a world of difference between sleeping with a guy to piss off your mom,” he says, moving closer still, until my knees are brushing up against his thighs, “and sleeping with someone because you can’t stand not to.”

He’s close enough to push my legs apart and step between them if he wanted to.

He’s close enough that he could lean down and press his lips to my neck. His index finger could trace a nipple, skirt along the seam of my yoga pants. I glance down and see a bulge in his jeans that wasn’t there a minute ago. I can taste victory on my lips. In this single misguided moment, I want all of it—his hands on me, his mouth on me, his other parts on me—more than I want anything else. More than I want Lucas Hall. More than I want revenge. God knows I’d feel otherwise in the morning, but right now…it’s this, only this.

“You sure seem like a guy who wishes it was him I was about to fuck at an art exhibit.”

He places one hand on either side of me, bracing himself against the table, bringing us face-to-face. “I don’t need to take you to an art exhibit, princess,” he replies. He leans close so his mouth is beside my ear. “We both know I could tell you to get on all fours right now and you’d do it. I could tell you to get on your knees and suck me off. You’d do any-fucking-thing I asked.”

The effect is primitive and immediate: my nipples pinch, my core clenches so hard it hurts, and I’m pretty sure I just ruined a pair of panties.

“You have the confidence of a much more financially successful man,” I reply, but my voice is weak. I hold still, aside from my hands, which cling to the lip of the table as if they’re all that’s keeping me from melting into a puddle on the floor. “And if you’re so sure of yourself, why aren’t you telling me to get on my knees?”

His head lowers. His mouth is so close that I can feel his lips brush mine when he speaks. “Because I refuse to obsess over a girl who’s never going to stick around.”

He steps away as fast as he moved in, grabbing his keys and walking out the door.

I wait until he’s gotten into his truck. And then I scream in frustration.

* * *

I drive to Harold’s office on Saturday afternoon. The parking lot is empty aside from Harold’s BMW, which is the same model as mine. I can’t wait to tell my mother Harold drives the car she thought was so showy, so much worse than Jeff’s.

He climbs from the driver’s side as I pull up beside him. He is not quite as cute as I remember. There’s nothing wrong with him, but it’s possible I was initially so surprised to discover he wasn’t old that I’d overlooked several things—like the fact that his hair is thinning, and he’s kind of skinny, and his shirt is dumb, and mostly that he in no way resembles Liam. I bet this guy has never growled at a woman, has never said I could tell you to get on your knees and suck me off. You’d do any-fucking-thing I asked.

None of this will prevent me from going out with him and running straight home to tell my mother, however.

“I hope this is okay?” he asks. “There’s really no conflict of interest as your mother’s surgery is complete, and she’s got no more follow-ups scheduled with me, but I can hand her chart over to another doctor if you’re more comfortable with that.”

“No, not at all,” I say with a forced smile. I hadn’t realized until now that my mother wasn’t going to have any further appointments with Harold, but that’s definitely disappointing. “I’m sure she wouldn’t care.”

I get in his car, and we head toward San Jose. We talk about the weather, about the art we are going to see, and I decide these two topics bore me about equally. I found him amusing when we spoke before. Now he’s an unfortunate combination of anxious and uptight.

“You don’t date a lot, do you?” I ask.

He frowns. “Is it that obvious?”

“You seem nervous.”

“I’m just getting out of a long-term relationship,” he replies. “So I haven’t been on a first date in a decade. I feel like I’ve forgotten what to do.”

My stomach sinks. I don’t want to be his first date in a decade—I doubt this will be an experience he looks back upon fondly one day. “A decade? That’s a long time. What happened?”

I quietly pray that the breakup was his fault.

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