Page 32 of Bite Your Tongue

“What? Why?” I frown.

“Because I’m putting my number in it,” he says, taking my phone from my hand after I pull it out of my pocket. He types on it for a minute before he smirks, handing it back. “I texted myself, so now I have yours too, Brat.”

“Ohgreat.” I roll my eyes but smile. “Now you’re going to go all stalkerish on me, and I’ll end up having to change my number.” I point my finger at his chest. “Why are you so obsessed with me?”

“I mean, it could be that magical pussy of yours”—he winks, taking my hand in his—“or maybe those big ol’ tits. Sorry, babe.” He shrugs. “We can be friends, and I can still think about motorboating them.” He nods toward security. “Now, if you’re going to catch that flight, you’d better haul some ass.”

When he releases my hand, I take a few steps backward toward security. “Have a good weekend, Ryder. Congratulations on your win.”

Spinning away from him, I walk away.

But my cheeks must turn bright red when he yells behind me, “Just so you know, real friends let their friends play with their titties!”

I don’t turn around, but instead, I hold my middle finger up to him. And even then … I’m smiling like a fool.

I don’t like the way my stomach is tingling or the way I’m grinning, but it’s all okay. I’m still in complete control of the situation with me and Ryder. It’s all going to be just fine.

Really.

Never in a million years did I expect Ryder to tell me that he liked me. I especially never thought he’d chase after me and come to the airport—that’s for sure.

If this were another time, I would have leaped into his arms and told him to take me back to his place. That’s right … I would have totally missed my flight. Or the old me would have. That was before I got burned to the point of no return and stepped away from dicks altogether.

I have to be strong for myself right now. How am I ever going to be comfortable in my own skin if I always need a man around to make me feel whole? So, even though it’s hard, I’m going to keep this boundary in place. We can be friends, but that’s all it will ever be.

At least for a good long time anyway.

Ipaw through my mail, which is basically a bunch of shit that I don’t need and I’ll have to now recycle because random companies think it’s a good idea to send this crap out. I often wonder why I even bother getting my mail, but then again, every now and then, an actual bill comes through, and I’m reminded that I can’t just ban the post office simply because I hate looking through junk mail.

When I get to the last piece of mail, the cheesiest grin spreads across my face as my fingers run over the postcard sent from Maine. A picture of a lighthouse with the beautiful shoreline and seagulls in the clear blue sky greets me, and when I flip it over, I read the message; the writing isn’t the neatest I’ve seen, but it still makes my heart flutter.

Brat,

Maine isn’t the same without you.

—Pretty Boy

It’s simple, and yet every part of me is buzzing as I stare down at it—even though it shouldn’t have this sort of effect on me. We’re friends—that’s it. Friends who have seen one another naked and done dirty … delicious … bad things to each other.

Pulling my phone out, I open our text thread and type a message.

Me: Wow, Pretty Boy. First, you follow me to the airport, and now you’re sending me cheesy postcards. Stop being so obsessed, would you? I’m getting Lifetime movie vibes here.

Even if we are just friends, we text sometimes. Okay, that’s a bit of an understatement. We text a lot. But Gemma isn’t big on texting, so he’s sort of become my bestie—second to Gem, of course.

When he doesn’t respond right away, I tuck my phone back into my pocket. Keeping the stack of mail clenched in my hand, I head back out toward the door just as an elderly man and woman head toward me. Instinctively, I hold the door open for them, and the women passes through, giving me a smile.

“Why, thank you, sweetheart,” she says, shuffling along.

The man with her, who I assume to be her husband, almost makes it to the door, but right away, I notice that the man’s color is off, his expression looks strange, and he appears off-balance. Just as he starts to go down, I leap in front of him, catching him before he can fall face forward and no doubt injure himself.

He weighs more than me by at least twenty pounds or so, and right away, I’m sinking down, keeping him positioned against me.

“Marlin!” his wife screeches, pushing open the door that began to close.

When she moves beside me and I look up to see the sheer panic on her face, I scream to a man walking toward us on the sidewalk, “Call 911—now!”

There is no missing the shock on the stranger’s face, but seconds later, he’s pulling his cell phone from his pocket. After hitting a few keys, he brings it to his ear.

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