Page 28 of Texts From My Exes
Well, no time but the present. I opened up the door and stared across the bar. Harper glanced up, just as an entire martini dropped from her hand.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
HARPER
I dreamt you were on Dateline last night, weird, you know the one where the women snap? That one—thank God you never had a knife fetish or I’d be worried—you don’t right? Have a knife fetish? I swear it’s not cheating if you’re in a different country! I mean I don’t pay taxes in France, ergo, do I really exist there? But, again, no knives, right? Please don’t leave me on read.
–Stuart the exchange student
It’s not starting out great—this date.
First off, Ezra has been non-existent since the last failed one. Did I get drunk andmaybeflirt with the idea of kissing him? Yeah. Did I also wake up twice thinking he was in bed with me, only to find myself spooning my pillow like it owed me money? Yes, ma’am.
My feelings have never been more confusing. Straddling him did not help. It just made him worse—more infuriating, more unreadable. Plus, he’d punched that guy like a knight in shining armor I’d always sworn I didn’t want. Did he have to smack mein the hormonal bloodstream with that much testosterone? Was it really necessary to smell that good while doing it?
And then he barely texted this week. Just one message saying Vex, the actor, would be on time at the restaurant and that he’d sent over my interview questions. When I’d asked what he was doing, he mentioned visiting family. Something about a eulogy. Then, totally deadpan, he’d asked if it was hard being a woman and why I torture myself at the salon. Weird.
I glance at my phone again. Still nothing but a passive-aggressive thumbs-up emoji from earlier.
What did I expect? For him to rush in and stop the date? For him to confess his love in the middle of the street? How would I even react? The grey area of our friendship was starting to haunt me, and I didn’t know if it was the dates doing it… or if it was me finally cracking. Maybe I’d just gotten tired of pretending I didn’t want someone safe. Someone who knew me well enough to order my food without asking.
I set my phone down. Five minutes late. Vex the actor was fashionably five minutes late.
Whatever. I pasted on a smile and lifted my huckleberry martini?—
And then Ifeltit.
A shift in the air. The kind of subtle buzz you get before a summer storm, or before something very, very bad happens in a horror movie.
I looked up?—
Hazel eyes. Gorgeous hazel eyes, framed by criminally long lashes. Messy, designer-wavy hair, gold threads through dark strands like the chaos was planned. Sharp cheekbones. Smirk that could start wars. Black peacoat over a tan shirt, dark jeans, sneakers—hell, even the shoelaces looked smug.
He wasn’t just stunning. He was beautiful.
He was perfect.
He was?—
Holy shit on a stick.
He was Ezra.
MyEzra.
The martini glass slipped from my fingers, shattering. Ice cubes and pink liquid bled across the floor, one traitorous cube sliding perfectly into my dress, right against my nipple—hello, front-row seats to my dignity dying.
It was the dress. The dress was making me react. Not Ezra. Nope. Not Vex. Definitely not Vexra.
Oh god, he was walking toward me.
Every head turned. I swear at least two marriages ended right there from the way women looked at him. A waiter and a waitress practically body-checked each other to get to our table. The bartender was already making me a replacement martini. I forgot how to breathe.
And then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—he stopped in front of me, cupped my face with his warm, capable hands, and gently closed my hanging jaw.
“You look beautiful, Harper,” he said, voice low. “Just like I remember.”
