Page 2 of Never Yours

When I reach Ingrid, she greets me with a hug as she always does, and I kiss her temple. Our embrace is longer than usual, but neither one of us lets go.

“I’m sorry about those two,” she sighs against me. “I want to get?—”

I don’t care that we’re just friends. I don’t care if my date used me to come to prom. I don’t care that Ingrid might use me, too. I grip her chin between my thumb and forefinger and kiss her. For the briefest of moments, she melts into me. Just as quickly, her eyes fly wide, and she steps out of my hold.

“Cay, we can’t.”

“Why not?” She stills in my arms. “I don’t want to sleep with you.” The lie weighs on me, but I would be more than happy to spend the rest of the night with her fully clothed.

Her brows pinch. “Then, what do you want?”

You. “What do you want?”

Ingrid’s expression softens. “Can we get out of here?”

Without another word, I take her hand and rush us out of the gym and to my pop’s truck. She doesn’t pull away, and I hang onto the tiny glimmer of hope that she feels the same way about me that I do about her. “Where to, princess?”

“Princess?” she laughs. “You know better than anyone that I’m hardly a princess.”

“Could’ve fooled me with that tiara.” I open the door and gesture for her to get in. “Your chariot awaits.”

She smiles, biting her lip, teasing, “And they say chivalry is dead.” Reaching up, she removes the tiara and tosses it haphazardly into the cab of the truck.

Offering my hand to help her get in, she doesn’t take it. It’s always been this way with her; never needing anyone. I close the door and round the truck to get in on the driver’s side. The moment I’m next to her, I’m met with her floral perfume, reminding me of when we used to sit on her porch reading. Daffodils. It reminds me of the ones that her mother grows every spring right next to the porch.

We drive down the quiet road, and the silence is deafening. Just as I’m about to ask her about the book she was reading, she breaks it first and quietly asks, “Why did you take Lindsay?”

“The person I wanted to go with was already going with someone else.” I fail to hide my smile, except she doesn’t return it.

Keeping my eyes on the road. I still manage to see her look away and out of the window. Her voice small, she mutters, “It’s not like you would've asked me.” What the fuck? I pull over to the side of the road. “What are you doing?”

Putting the truck into ‘park,’ I turn and face her. “I wanted to ask you, but you already had a date.”

Her eyes lock with mine, leaving me wondering how badly I’ll fuck things up with Cass if I consider this. My eyes fall to Ingrid’s dark red lip, her chest rising and falling with erratic breaths, when she surprises me, taking my face in her hands and kissing me. Her lips are soft and warm, making me forget every reason I have for not being with her.

Ingrid pulls back an inch, rests her forehead on mine, and whispers, “If you had asked, I would’ve said yes.”

ingrid

. . .

Ten Years Later

“Fuck, you feel so good.”

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Thanks?

Sleeping with my boss has to be the worst decision I’ve ever made; there's no way I’m going to be able to show my face at work tomorrow. But, when the head of your network comes onto you, you’re left with two options: give in and quit, or reject him and risk being fired. Quitting is easier than getting fired. With the gossip around the office, it was only a matter of time before this asshole came onto me—I should’ve worn a wedding ring to work or insisted I’m only into women. Then again, that didn’t stop him from ruining Denise Kensington’s career. She “quit” shortly after a meeting alone with him a few months back.

I’ve spent the last five years working my ass off to become a head writer for Left Field—the network’s number one sitcom. All to have the rug pulled out from under me.

“Meet me in my office to discuss the new show idea you’re proposing,” he said. “I’ll clear my calendar.”

Bull. Fucking. Shit.

The cold leather couch bounces beneath me as Martin thrusts faster, guaranteeing I’ll be putting on a performance. I give it two minutes before I have to moan his name. It doesn’t help that ‘Martin’ isn’t the sexiest to call out—more like I’ll be summoning a butler. My best option is to completely dissociate and pretend this is just a bad sex dream.

If I wanted a bad sex dream, I would just go through the highlight reel of prom night, when I lost one of my best friends after sleeping with him.

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