I am the worst. Slap on a sign and dog-shame me.
I jump to conclusions.
“Shoot. I’m sorry. I feel like an ass.” I might as well be six inches tall, that’s how low I feel.
Tilting my chin back up, he makes me look at him, still smirking. “Your jealousy is the cutest thing ever.”
“Ugh. Pretend I never said anything. It was wildly inappropriate.”
“It was wildly adorable,” he says, then his expression goes serious. “But also a little insulting. I would never cheat. Never sleep with someone else while I’m seeing you.” He blinks, like he just realized what he said. “I mean . . . while we’re together.” But that doesn’t seem to be the correction he wanted either. He flubs his lips, giving up the search for the right cover-up. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” I say quickly. But I don’t. I don’t know what either of us means or wants. I don’t know why he said anything about seeing me or being together.
All I know is he looks flustered, and I insulted him, and clearly, neither of us entirely knows how to act around the other.
But I’m the one who tried to sneak out. I’m the one who ginned up tales of plants to water and popcorn to purchase. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest you’d do that. That was terrible. And I’m not even sure why it upset me. I think . . . I just saw those toiletries, and I felt . . . silly. Can we please rewind? Go back to an hour ago when I was chill?”
He takes a moment to consider it, then nods. “You’re chill. We’re chill. It’s all good. Like we said last night, right?”
“It’s so good.”
“But you need to know I could tell you were upset. Want to know how?”
“How?”
“Because you kept trying to joke. And after what we talked about last night, I started thinking maybe that wasn’t just about you trying to be lighthearted. That maybe you were covering up something that hurt.”
Damn him. He’s too observant. Or maybe I let him in too far. If he can see that about me, he can hurt me, like my ex did. The wounds aren’t fresh, but the scars last forever.
But even with the scars, a part of me likes that he understood how I was feeling, maybe even before I did.
“I was a little upset.”
“And now? Do you feel better?”
A small smile tugs at my lips. “I do.”
He drops a kiss onto my forehead, sweet and tender. More tender than I deserve. “Good. I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers.
His words float across my skin like a warm breeze in the summer. “I don’t want to hurt you either.”
“Then let’s keep not hurting each other.” He steps back, lifts his hands, then signs something. I have no idea what he’s saying.
I shrug, confused. “Help a girl out?”
He slows it down, repeating the finger moves as he says, “I said, It’s all good.”
I smile. “I like that. I’m glad you said that.”
He signs again, then says, “Anytime.”
After a goodbye, I leave, but I don’t feel all good.
Because a part of me wishes I were staying.
Wishes I were getting ready at his place.
Leaving with him.
That we were going to brunch together.
But that’s not going to happen.
When I arrive at the West Village sidewalk café, the whole crew is draped over chairs, shades on, laughing, chatting.
Bryn waves broadly then stands and gives me a hug, whispering, “Tell me everything about last night.”
I shake my head, mouthing Later and wondering if she can tell that Ransom and I slept together. Whether it’s written in my eyes, or she simply has best-friend X-ray vision. Likely that last one.
Logan stands too, his brown eyes twinkling. “Good to see you, Teagan. What’s the report?”
“You were there, goading us. You should know,” I say with a sassy stare.
“But I wasn’t there,” Summer says. “Did he cost five bucks or ten?”
“Did you use a coupon to save some money?” Bryn chimes in. “Or maybe a promo code?”
“They don’t have promo codes for something that cheap,” Summer says.
“I was a prize last night, assholes,” Ransom says, flipping them the bird.
“I bet you were a prize. Like the kind at the bottom of a cereal box,” Oliver teases.
“And she won me for a fuck ton of money.”
Fitz pats his chest. “Thanks to us making sure you went for the most.”
“Thanks, I think,” Ransom says.
“Now tell us,” Dean says, lifting his tea, likely English breakfast, “where will you go on this special date? Statue of Liberty? Empire State Building?”
Fitz laughs then drapes an arm around his fiancé. “I told you I’d take you to those places, babe.”
“You’ve been telling me that for months. Still haven’t made it,” Dean remarks, lifting a brow.
“Seems you’re just too busy,” Summer says, smirking at the two guys getting married next weekend.
