Page 16 of Imperfect Match (Imperfect Match 1)
I lie on my floor looking up at the ceiling for a solid five minutes, but my heart refuses to slow down. I can’t seem to breathe normally. My stomach is tied in knots.
Propping myself up on my elbows, I try to piece together how I ended up on my bedroom floor with Reid on top of me, his totally obvious erection pressing into my thigh.
One second we were bantering in the usual way, making fun of each other and taking cheap shots, and the next he was barreling into my bedroom and throwing me down on the carpet. I tried to get away, mostly because it was fun to fight back, but he easily overpowered me—and then I felt his dick on my leg. And I saw the look in his eye. I was positive he was going to kiss me, and I suddenly felt this fluttery thing in my chest.
The fluttery thing happens again as I’m thinking about it, making me shiver.
Slowly, I get off the floor and sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the spot on the floor where we’d lain.
It would have been a mistake if he’d kissed me. No doubt about that. Reid and I are not that way. Oh, sure, we flirt here and there, but that’s mostly just to get under each other’s skin. Tease each other. Drive each other nuts. It isn’t real.
Still.
There’s something different about what had almost happened tonight. Taking a deep breath, I put my hand over my belly, and I swear I can feel the butterflies. Reid isn’t supposed to give me butterflies. I never feel butterflies. I’m not a romantic whe
n it comes to myself—too many horrible experiences with men have killed those instincts. My butterflies are dead, dammit. DEAD.
Rising, I hang up my towel and put on comfy underwear and pajamas, remaining in sort of a daze. I comb through my damp hair and put on moisturizer. I wander into the kitchen and heat up last night’s chicken for dinner. While I eat, I watch an episode of This Is Us, but I can’t even concentrate enough to get weepy.
When I’m done, I put my plate and Reid’s plastic container in the dishwasher. I drop my fork into the silverware holder, and I’m about to stick Reid’s in when I stop and stare at it instead. Then I bring it to my lips and close them around it before pulling it out again.
It’s stupid. We’ve shared a fork before. We’ve shared water bottles, straws, tasted each other’s drinks, dinners, desserts.
But this isn’t that. It’s something else.
Then I’m annoyed with myself.
“For God’s sake, knock it off, Willow. Are you that hard up?” Disgusted, I throw the fork into the dishwasher and shut the door.
Ten minutes later, I’m lying in bed, eyes closed, trying to sleep. But those dang butterflies in my belly just won’t quit.
Flopping onto my stomach, I try to smother them. Suffocate them. Send them back to the graveyard, where they belong.
Because it’s really fucking bothersome that of all people, it was Reid who brought them back to life.
Another ten minutes pass.
Then twenty.
Then forty.
And another forty.
Now I’m getting pissed.
Screw him.
Who does he think he is? He can’t waltz into my apartment, rummage through my fridge, and screw with my emotions.
I’m the victim here, dammit.
Throwing the blankets off, I hop up. I’m the one over here analyzing this crap, wondering why suddenly my best friend has me all ... confused and whatnot. I put on my off-the-shoulder sweatshirt to cover my tank and some boy shorts to cover my underwear.
I have a key to Reid’s place since Leo locks himself out constantly, so I grab it from my purse, dash across the hall, and stealthily let myself in.
I’m on a mission.
When his bedroom door flies open, he sits up in bed. “What the—?”
