Page 32 of Some Like It Hott

“How do you know it’s awho?” I ask, even though it totally, totally was. And then, “Who wereyouthinking of when you were smashing the toilet?”

He scowls and looks away. But I’m getting used to the scowls. I’m starting to understand they don’t mean he doesn’t want to talk.

“It’s only fair,” I point out. “If I tell you, you have to tell me.”

“I asked first.”

“It was a who,” I admit. “It was my ex. He was having an emotional affair with his work wife.”

He lets out a sharp hissing sound. Which is…satisfying.

“I shouldn’t have been surprised. He was with her so much. It just hurt. Especially because he made it seem like I was the problem. That if I had more substance, if I wasn’t justfun, maybe it would have worked out.”

He shakes his head. “That’s complete bullshit. He tried to make it about you, but it was about him being a complete dickwad.”

I’m quiet for a moment because, well, it’s nice—hearing him say that. He’s a guy who clearly never says anything he doesn’t mean, so it has more weight, somehow.

“Thanks,” I say finally, and he shrugs, like,I didn’t do much, but you’re welcome. “Even so, I never, ever want to be someone’s fun-times girl again.”

“Is that what he called you?”

His voice is tight. It reminds me of the heat in his eyes right before Horace interrupted.

“It’s what I was to him.”

It’s quiet for a moment, only the sound of our footsteps as we walk.

“What was his name?” he asks.

“Lloyd.”

“Lloyd,” he repeats, squinting.

That makes me laugh. “Worst name ever, right? It’s like that scene inWhen Harry Met Sallywhen he’s all, ‘A Sheldon can do your income taxes. If you need a root canal, Sheldon’s your man…but humpin’ and pumpin’ is not Sheldon’s strong suit.’”

There’s another long silence, and I think maybe I’ve shocked him. Until he says, “Was it Lloyd’s strong suit?”

“I mean, it wasn’tbad,” I say.

“That,” he says, the corner of his mouth turning up, “is pretty damning.”

Is hesmiling? “It is, kind of, isn’t it?”

“If that was the best thing anyone could say about me in bed? I’d move to Siberia and swear off sex.”

I snort.

“God, I hope no one haseversaid that about sex with me,” he says fervently.

I’m guessing no one has ever said sex with Preston “wasn’t bad.” Because he can look at a woman like she’s, God, I don’t even know,dinner—and he has so much intensity and focus, like if he decided you were what he was doing, he woulddoyou absolutely as well as he knew how to?—

This is not a productive line of thought.

“Who was yours?”

“My…?” He’s confused, and I let myself wonder whathewas thinking about, what caused him to lose the thread of the conversation.

“Who you thought of while you smashed that toilet.”

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