Page 19 of Doughn't Let Me Go

She doesn’t answer. Not really, anyway. Just tucks her lips together and says, “Just no kissing, okay?”

I agreed.

But looking at her full lips in the light of day, I’m starting to wonder why I did.

“I should probably go,” she says quietly, not looking up at me.

Rolling off her, I glance to my bedside table where my old-school alarm clock rests.

“Not a bad idea. I have a meeting in an hour, and I should probably shower.”

“Right.”

She scoots away and off the bed, not bothering to cover herself up as she goes.

I like that she doesn’t cover up, like she isn’t scared of her body.

Or maybe she just realizes it would be a moot point because of last night.

I don’t bother trying to talk myself into taking my eyes off her. I couldn’t even if I tried.

When I first felt her staring at Slice last night, I was annoyed. In LA, you don’t have to worry about people staring. Everyone exists in their own little world. You’re invisible.

That’s not the case here. Here,everyonesees you, even when you don’t want them to.

All I wanted last night was a drink and some time to myself.

Then I felt her eyes on me, and I snapped at her.

When she apologized, my heart squeezed at how small and worried her voice sounded. I felt like such an asshole, that guy I was back in LA—the sullen grump who never smiled—and that’s not who I’m supposed to be here.

I turned to apologize to her, and my breath stuttered.

I don’t think she heard it, but I’m sure my eyes couldn’t hide the obvious interest.

She was different than I had expected. Her shoulders were curled inward, defeated, and I knew it had nothing to do with me snapping. She was just as broken as I felt.

And don’t even get me started on what she was wearing: jeans that had holes obviously not put there for fashion’s sake and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt two sizes too big for her. Her nineties look was completed with a flannel draped across the back of her stool.

It was obvious she wasn’t there to impress anyone, especially not the likes of me.

Maybe that’s what I liked the most.

“You’re still staring.” She smirks.

“Guilty.”

I pull myself from my insanely comfortable bed that was worth every single penny I spent on it and groan, stretching out muscles that haven’t been worked in a long, long time.

You can hit the gym as much as you’d like, but there’s something else entirely about a workout from great sex.

“That good, huh?”

I sputter out a laugh, surprised at her words. “Someone’s proud of herself.”

She lifts a shoulder. “I just call it like I see it.”

“I like that you’re confident.”

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