Page 32 of How to Break My Heart 1
“I don’t sleep with every woman I speak to, believe it or not,” he deadpans, his expression flat as if he’s daring me to challenge him.
Big mistake. “Yeah, right. Why else would you take a drunk chick home?”
Aston turns to look at me with a slackened mouth. “Myles asked me to.”
I study him closely, noting the way he leans back in his seat, effortlessly relaxed, as if leaving Ramona behind was the most natural thing in the world. “I call bullshit. He did not.”
“Would you like to call him to ask?” He moves his hand to his phone, ready to dial. “If you think I’m lying, I’m more than happy to prove you wrong.”
“Fine, whatever.” My arms fold at the same time as he turns left onto Ginger Grove. I glance around before asking, “How do you know where I live?”
“Madelina,” he answers nonchalantly.
“Oh,” I murmur as he pulls up to the back of the building. Out front is the café, but back here lies the entrance to my apartment. I unbuckle my seat belt, eyes fixed on the rain pounding against the windshield. My choices are to stay in this confined space, awkwardly silent, or make a dash for it and get drenched before I even reach the door.
A little rain never hurt anyone… right?
“Thank you for taking me home,” I say, unable to look him in the eye. “I guess we should catch up to talk about the wedding stuff. How about tomorrow morning at my café?”
“Sure.”
I nod, then place my hand on the door handle, but something makes me turn back around to face him. “There is no guy.”
Aston tilts his head, his gaze sharp and penetrating as he examines me. I shift uncomfortably, suddenly aware of every inch of his attention.
“So the one at the bar looking rather cozy with you was a stranger?” he questions in a rigid tone.
“He is someone I know,” I reply honestly. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Aston presses his lips flat, then mutters, “Yet…”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask with a heated glare.
“It means your gentleman friend’s body language would indicate he’s waiting for the right time to strike.”
My body temperature rises as my anger spikes. “And what makes you think I give in so easily?”
He keeps quiet with that stupid smirk on his face. Of course, he just broke the cardinal rule—he called a woman a slut. Okay, maybe not in so many words, but the assumption I sleep around is there.
“You’re telling me a man and a woman can’t be friends?”
“No! If a man tells you he’s happy to be friends, he’s waiting for you to get comfortable before getting you into bed.”
“Right, so all men are jerks? That’s what you’re telling me?” I snap, grabbing my purse, barely containing my anger. “You know what? I’m going to pretend this conversation never happened. See you tomorrow morning. And by the way, from now on, it’s wedding stuff only. That’s all I’ll discuss with you.”
Despite the rain, I throw open the door and dash toward the stairs, barely feeling the drops pelting my skin. I don’t turn around to watch him leave, but the deep, throaty roar of his engine echoes behind me, cutting through the downpour as he speeds off.
As soon as I get inside the apartment, I strip off my soaked clothes and jump into a hot shower. Steam fills the bathroom, easing the tension from my muscles and nearly washing away the weight of the day. But Aston’s words linger, refusing to fade.
“What an asshole,” I mumble to myself.
When the heat becomes too much, I turn off the water, dry off, and pull on a pair of jeans and a cozy knitted sweater. The café is still open for another hour, so I head downstairs to check on Billie and, hopefully, clear my head.
Billie is wrapping up with customers, and as the door finally closes behind them, I join her in the kitchen, rolling up my sleeves to wash trays and wipe down countertops. The steady rhythm of cleaning brings a welcome calm, if only for a moment.
“How was the lunch?” Billie asks, counting the cash in the register.
I shrug. “As expected.”
