Page 41 of Texts From My Exes
I froze. He froze.
We stood there like idiots until he casually grabbed a towel, likethis was fine. He padded to the kitchen, and because my brain had apparently short-circuited, I followed.
He opened the fridge, completely unfazed, while I hovered in the doorway trying to remember how to breathe.
That’s when I saw it—movement outside. A shadow. A camera lens catching the glow of the fridge light.
“Ezra.” I hissed. “We’re being watched.”
Sure enough, a flash went off. My phone buzzed seconds later: a notification. TRENDING: #VexAndHarper FAKING IT?
Ezra shut the fridge door, his expression hardening. He stepped close, crowding me until my back hit the counter. His hand slid to the back of my head, holding me there.
“We’re ruining it already,” he said, voice low. “Or maybeyouare.”
I didn’t even think—I punched him in the chest.
He caught my wrist, spun me, and suddenly his mouth was on mine.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. It was fire and fury and every unsaid thing between us exploding at once.
We tripped against the wall, mouths crashing, teeth clashing. His hand gripped my hip, mine tangled in his hair, both of us kissing like it was a fight neither of us wanted to lose.
And then—another flash.
Somewhere outside, a camera caught it all.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
HARPER
Hey, my probation officer told me about this great taco place, want to do shots? Tequila is the only shot legal for me right now.
—Milo
Ididn’t sleep. Not one second.
Instead, I stared at the ceiling and tried tonotremember how my best friend tasted. Which worked about as well as telling myself not to breathe.
The force of his mouth. The sweetness of his tongue. The way his hands gripped anything he could just to keep me close. He was violently smooth—charismatic, annoyingly perfect. How dare he be good at everything?
This. This was why we couldn’t have nice things.
Men like him were the problem. They gave you expectations and then turned out to be gay. Or taken. Or gayandtaken.
I sat up so fast I nearly levitated.
Holy shit.
Maybe he was. Maybe that’s why he’d never hit on me. Which was… better than the alternative—that he’d never been attracted to me at all.
I looked down at my T-Rex pajamas and grimaced. Okay. Maybe not helping my case.
I crept out of my room. He was sprawled across the couch like some ancient king draped over his throne, limbs everywhere, just to make sure people knew who owned what.
Okay, Jon Snow. Keep the dragon asleep.
