Page 44 of And Then Came You

“Lexi, you’re far better than any of them. That’s what I meant.”

“Are you mad at me?”

I should answer her question. Instead, I respond with one of my own. “Are you going to see Gianni again? He’s a known player. A terrible idea for you.”

“On the way over you said he was lovely.”

“Yes, because I’m not screwing him. Trust me, you don’t want any part of him.”

Lexi nods, her gaze on the road in front of us. “It seems every man I meet is an asshole. A player. A total waste of time.”

“Most men are, Lexi.” I pull into her drive, throwing the car into park.

“What are you then, Sam? You sleep with all sorts of women, nary a care to how they feel after you walk out of their lives, never to look back. Yet, you’ll pass judgement on every man who shows a speck of interest in me. Do you want me to be alone? Is that it? I thought we were friends. I would think you’d want me to be happy.”

The hurt in her voice drains the anger from my body, and I grab her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. I’m desperate to tell her how I’m feeling, but terrified of her response. If she rejects me, I’ll never recover.

“I want you happy more than anything. But you’re so important to me, Lexi. I’m protective.”

She leans over, tweaking my nose. “Hmm. Likely story.” With that, she presses her lips to mine. It’s a soft, simple kiss, so unexpected that I don’t have time to respond before it’s over.

“What do you think my reason is?” I counter, desperate for her to say it aloud so that I can claim her mouth and spend the rest of the afternoon claiming every inch of her body.

She ponders my question, her finger tapping against her lips. “I think you enjoy being a cock block… even to yourself. Safe travels, Sam. Call me when you land.”

She pops out of the car, grabbing her bag and making a beeline for her front door, leaving me even more mixed up than I started the weekend.

Chapter Eight

Lexi

Sam and I are arguing. Again. Over nonsense.

It seems since the Hamptons, we have been picking at one another, and I’m not sure of the reason.

Okay, I know why, at least from my end, but I don’t dare say the words aloud. Saying them aloud makes them real, and falling for my best friend is the dumbest idea I’ve had yet.

Besides, when I kissed Sam, he didn’t respond. At all. He just sat there, frozen in place. It was a brazen move on my part, but one I knew I could write off as a friendly gesture in case it went south.

It didn’t go south. It didn’t go anywhere.

Now, it’s been a week and all I can picture when I close my eyes is Sam and Almira, fornicating in some luxurious paradise, a staff of servants at their beck and call, fetching condoms and wine for their never-ending orgy.

At least the angst is good for one thing. My book is almost finished. Since that weekend, the words have flown out of my brain and onto the page. Only trouble is that I’m now picturing myself as the heroine and Sam as the alpha male. Let’s just say there’s an enormous amount of screwing happening in this story—against walls, on counters, in the shower—if I could daydream about his naked form sinking inside me, I wrote it into a scene.

The only hangup is the ending, because I’ve no idea how that will play out.

Damian has phoned several times, although it seems our schedules may never mesh enough to have dinner. I get it. He’s a budding artist who’s busy preparing for a show, and he needs twenty-eight hours in the day. Twenty-four simply won’t do. I understand the demands of deadlines.

So, I sit at home, daydreaming about a man who I’ll never have and trying to drum up enough interest to pursue the one I might.

“Ugh, this sucks,” I yell out to the empty condo, scrubbing my face with my hands and flopping back onto the couch.

My phone buzzes beside me. It’s Caroline—always a welcome reprieve. “Hey there, my beautiful friend. How are you?”

“I’ll be better once you get here.”

“Where are you?”

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