Page 53 of Only in Your Dreams

She has a fist around my cock the last time I see her, and all I can come up with is,hey?

And then I realize I actually punctuated theheywith a period. A damnperiod.

Fucking. Kill me.

My heart leaps into my throat when I see three small dots flicker at the bottom of the text thread.

ZAC:Hey.

CLOVER:Hey with a period, Porter? What are you, a serial killer?

I let out a laugh, and Brooks shoots me a weird look. He tries to look over my shoulder, but I shove him away. “Get back to work.”

“Not obsessed with her, my ass,” he mutters under his breath, before striding closer to the field and saying something to one of the players.

ZAC:It’s a fair assumption, given the text. How did you know it was me?

CLOVER:It was either you or Brooks in that group chat, and he didn’t strike me as a hey with a period kind of guy. Aren’t you at work?

ZAC:I am.

ZAC:How are you?

ZAC:I’ve wanted to see you.

CLOVER:Give me half an hour. I’ll meet you at the stadium.

Chapter 13

Melody

The pen cap digs into my head, delivering acute relief to my screaming scalp. The sharp sensation of hair follicles pulled taut in the same direction for far too long, in variations of the same chaotic bun I’ve had on top of my head for the past week.

The relief is fleeting. The real solution to my follicular problem involves a shampoo and blow-dry I haven’t been able to muster since the shower I took upon my rescue from camp. It’s a good thing Parker is the only person I’ve seen all week. I’m an over-tired, greasy-haired mess, and even though there’s no fooling anyone that I’m a woman in crisis, he knows better by now than to question me when I resort to one-worded answers.

What happened at camp before I showed up? Nothing.

What are you doing hiding in your room all day? Thinking.

What do you want for dinner tonight? Pasta.

Again? Yes.

I toss the pen down on the desk in the corner of my room. It bounces off my keyboard and the computer screen comes to life, immediately exposing my shame. Half the screen is fitted with a spreadsheet I’ve been toiling over for work, market trends for a Fortune 500 client as he seeks to increase his infant son’s trust fund from a cool, however many millions, to however many more millions.

But it’s the webpage on the other half of the screen that really takes the cake.

What is Love Bombing? Seven Signs to Look For.

Apparently, Connor’s type of love has a name.

I turn back to my closet, glaring at my collection of clothes as though each piece has a sin to answer for. It’s right there, at the top of that list of seven signs:unexpected, needless gifts and tokens of affection.

Pretty, shiny, designer things Connor showered me with as proof of his love, only to use them against me later.

Simple yet oh-so-fucking-effective, wasn’t it?

I’ve been existing in a stolen, oversized sweatsuit of Parker’s since camp, unable to stomach the thought of wearing anything Connor purchased for me.

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