Page 48 of Texts From My Exes
Greg’s face flushed scarlet—matching the Old Navy maroon monstrosity he’d probably saved for tomorrow—and he stormed out.
I sagged against the booth, exhaling. Ezra slid into the seat across from me, stole my glass, and took a slow sip.
“Told you I was good at recon,” he said.
I glared at him, cheeks hot. “You aren’t supposed to be on these dates you know, that’s like blowing your cover or something.”
He smirked, leaning closer. “Or maybe I just made it more believable. The fact that we’re dating at all.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
EZRA
Hamburger. Ham.Bur.Ger. It’s three words. I never noticed. Did you notice? You want to come over? I have these insane brownies…
—Remmy, who learned about pot brownies that day.
Back at Harper’s apartment, we ended up where we always did—on the couch. Chinese takeout cartons balanced on the coffee table, chopsticks abandoned, her curled up with a spring roll while I pulled my laptop across my knees.
It was… comfortable. Too comfortable. I’d left earlier because I had work—yes, but I also needed to get my ass away from her and into the real world, the more we played house the more I wished I had my own toothbrush and special towel and guy soap in the shower—a loofah, see I was turning into the worst version of myself. Clingy. Needy. Desperate.
And my brother had been zero help. His only advice was take things slowly see how they go only for Maya to yell asking if we’ve banged yet. Banged, her choice of words. I got daily texts from her saying the sexual tension was off the charts and that we had an entire Reddit thread dedicated to the lore behind our friendship. Somehow someone had gotten pictures of me incollege—not good ones—and I’m one hundred percent sure she’s the one who uploaded them—especially since the only people who really took pictures of me were my brother and Harper.
Whatever. One date down. One more to go. We’d make it through for the fans or whatever, for the networks and then we’d be done. Everything would be fine and things would go back to normal. We had maybe what? A week left tops. I clicked open my email and was halfway into answering a tech question when Harper huffed loudly enough for me to know it wasn’t an accident.
I didn’t look up. “Yes, princess?”
“You’ve touched that computer more than you’ve touched me.”
I blinked up at her. “Excuse me?”
She gestured with her chopsticks, stabbing the air or maybe she was imagining me with the force in which she stabbed said air. “You. Laptop. Romance of the century. Meanwhile, I’m over here, tragically neglected.”
A slow grin tugged at the corners of my mouth. “Oh, I didn’t know you wanted to be touched so badly.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s not?—”
I leaned in, just to see her squirm. Her breath hitched, her lips parted?—
And then she screamed bloody murder.
“SPIDER!”
I flinched so hard my laptop nearly hit the floor. “Where?”
“There!” She pointed at the wall like she was reporting a UFO sighting. “Kill it! Kill it now!”
I squinted. “It’s the size of a nickel.”
“It has eight legs and a death wish!” she shrieked, scrambling onto the couch cushions like the thing could leap tall buildings.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Fine. Rock, paper, scissors.”
Her head snapped toward me. “What?”
“Loser kills it.”
