Page 72 of My Kinda Player (Summer Sisters 5)

Chapter Twenty-One

AJ

Tuesday night, more than forty-eight hours of radio silence, I decide to put this baby to rest. It’s time to realize it was just a weekend fling and move on. I mean, isn’t that how we met anyway? We were supposed to have wild and crazy stranger sex and then move on? It’s not like I haven’t done that before, but for some reason, the thought of moving on now feels like the air is being choked from my throat.

It needs to happen, though.

With my papers all graded for the night and a half bottle of white wine sitting empty on my counter, I reach for my phone. Even if he dropped me like a sack of week-old potatoes, I still owe him a thank you. I’m not completely rude, even though I’d rather fire off the F-U text.

Me: Thank you for a great weekend. See you around.

There. Sent.

Before I can put the phone down, bubbles appear.

He’s answering!

But then they disappear, with no message popping up.

About ten seconds later, they appear again.

And disappear.

This goes on for the better part of a minute, with no message received.

I drop my phone on my table like it was on fire and let out a loud sigh of frustration. It’s fine, really. But he can’t just reply with either: You’re welcome? It was great? Something? I mean that’s just common courtesy to the woman who let you slip a finger into her ass this weekend.

Heading off to bed, my phone still doesn’t have a message and my mind is too fuzzy from wine. I leave my cell on the counter in my kitchen so I’m not tempted to tell him off in the middle of the night when the alcohol buzz is in full force. Or worse, cry all over his virtual phone-shoulder while it wears off.

That would be embarrassing.

My bed is as cold as the Artic, even as the calendar slides toward mid-September, but that’s what you get after you’ve spent two nights in bedsheets that were on fire. I toss and turn, unable to relax, unable to find comfort in the lifeless pillow I’m cuddled against. But why should tonight be any different? It’s not, in fact. Sleeping alone is just a typical night in the life of AJ Summer.

* * *

When I reach my classroom door on Wednesday morning, I stop dead in my tracks. I glance down the hallway both directions, waiting for someone to jump out, or waiting for the object to detonate like a bomb.

But no one jumps out and the huge display of red roses doesn’t explode.

After unlocking my door, I juggle my latte, work satchel, purse, and the embarrassingly large vase of flowers, since I can’t open the door without moving it. The scent instantly hits my nose, a fragrant mix of sweet roses and soothing purple lavender. It’s not your typical accent flower for roses, but I’m not normal. It’s my favorite, though, and a certain sister who owns a flower shop uptown knows it.

I set the vase on my desk, having to move a tray for students to turn in papers, to accommodate the display. It’s huge and at least two dozen dark red blooms. I sip the caramel latte I picked up for myself and stare. There’s an envelope, which will surely answer the burning question of who brought me flowers. Yet, part of me doesn’t really want to know. On one hand, it could be the answer I’ve been waiting for from a certain hot PE teacher, or it could be the knife that finishes me off if I open the card and don’t see his name.

With a semi-shaking hand, I reach for the white packet and pull out the small note. I burst out laughing when the words register.

Nothing sparks a man into action like jealousy.

Love, Gpa

I should have known one of those ornery elders would be behind this.

But I also think he’s wrong. There’s clearly nothing for Sawyer to be jealous of, if his radio silence is any indication. It’s not like he’s been beating down my door for the last few days to see me–or even talk to me.

Not like last week.

It’s just…over.

A knock sounds on my door and my heart rate kicks up. When I turn in the direction of the sound, I see Bryce standing there, a warm smile on his face. He glances at my desk, noticing the flowers, and that smile falters. “Wow, look at those,” he says, walking into my classroom.

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