Page 141 of You've Got Hate Mail
“She doesn’t know.”
“Agreed.”
“And I don’t date. This isn’t formal shit.”
“Okay.”
“Fuck me, what kind of drug are you?”
“Are we fucking?”
My erection pulses along with my heartbeat, but harder and thicker. “Have to get you out of my system.”
She laughs, the sound like musical bells tinkling to announce every holiday and my birthday and rolled into one, with piles ofpresents and a seven-layer German chocolate cake and all of my favorite coffees.
That’s how Cricket feels.
Like all of my favorite things.
“One-time thing,” I tell her.
She slips a hand under my shirt and trails a single finger up my spine. “If you say so.”
“I don’t date,” I say again.
“Okay.”
“We’re working this out so we can both move on.”
“And then I’ll get on the dating apps.”
I rear up and glare down at her. “You’re not fucking getting on the fucking dating apps.”
She bites her lip, eyes so dark but still dancing. “You like me.”
“Not the point.”
“Why do you like me, Heath?”
Because she’s soft vulnerability and steely determination at the same time.
She’s the sunshine that woke me from a long slumber.
She offers everyone her heart without even realizing she’s doing it, all while looking for where she fits.
Where she belongs.
While helping me realize how I belong too.
Looking for who she is.
Helping me find who I am and who I want to be.
I swallow hard. “Does there have to be a reason?”
“I like you because you’re patient and kind and hot.”
“I’m not fucking patient.”
