Page 81 of Switching Graves

My smile falls. “Oh. I’m sorry for your loss.” It comes out awkward and seemingly disingenuous, especially given our current situation. I’ve already slept with the man, yet this is the first personal thing he’s told me. And I laughed at it.

He doesn’t appear offended. Maybe a little irritated, though I can’t figure out why aside from the fact that he’s been forced to think of his dead brother with a naked woman beneath him.

“It was a long time ago,” he says, eyes bouncing around my face as if he’s searching for something. Pity, maybe?

I wish I could admit that I’ve experienced loss as well. That grief follows me along everywhere I go, and while most people have nothing to offer aside from pity or awkward condolences, I can understand exactly how deep those wounds can go. But I can’t admit any of that to him. Not as Poppy.

So instead, I’ve ruined this perfectly good moment for no reason.

Without warning, he confirms my fears and pulls away, this time to sit back on his knees. But instead of getting him, his hands wrap around my thighs again, pushing them open more.

“What are you doing?” I ask in a shaky voice. I’m not even sure I’ve fully recovered from my last orgasm, and he already looks like he wants to try again.

“I told you, we’ve got one night. I plan to use every second of it. Now, spread your legs and try to keep quiet this time.”

41

Sonny

Ithought that walking out of Dr. Whitlock’s office after we hooked up was embarrassing. It will go down in history as the ultimate walk of shame and, funnily enough, the second time I made it from his office. I had myself convinced that every person who looked at me knew exactly what had just happened. I made stories up in my mind about what they were thinking—how dreadful and pathetic I had become.

It was torture.

The moment I was through my door, I called Poppy so she could talk me off the ledge, but she never answered.

That wasn’t even the worst of it.

I had no idea the mortification that would come with sitting through his lecture the following morning and being completely ignored.

As expected, he appears unaffected, delivering a speech on the five Ps of Clinical Psychology without glancing in my direction once.

Not one single time.

And I’ve taken a seat in the front row, practically beneath his nose.

They talk about being ghosted after a bad hookup, but I’ve never been treated like an actual ghost.

Realistically, what can I expect from a man with less emotional intelligence than most toddlers have in their pinky finger? He’s physically incapable of anything more.

At least, that’s what I tell myself. How else could he just ignore how amazing and natural everything felt between us?

I know what you’re thinking . . .

“Well, Sonny, hedidtell you it would only happen once, and then everything could go back to normal.”

Blah, blah, blah.

Too bad, I gaslit myself into believing that, after the connection we shared—and the copious amount of sex we had in one single night—he would change his mind on that.

I’m aware of how naive I sound.

Once he wraps up his lecture, he hands the class over to me so I can explain the week’s assignment. I’m sure he’ll continue with the cold shoulder, ignoring my whole existence the way he had done for the past ninety minutes. I even mentally prepare myself for his rejection, rushing to get everything put away ahead of time, so I can bolt out before he notices I’m still here.

He doesn’t do any of that, though.

As I walk past him to stand at the podium, his pinky brushes mine. It’s such a small mistake, but not one he’s ever made before. My eyes flick up to find him staring down at me with that same heated expression he gave me last night, just before we crossed the line.

In front of everyone.

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