“Oh, really?” I wrap my arms around myself. “What is it then? Why are you here?”
Maybe I really am a fool because I actually want to hear what he has to say.
He rakes a hand through his hair, looking unsure for maybe the first time in his life. “I want to help. It’s clear you’re determined to lose your virginity, and I hate the idea of you having sex with some random guy you’ve never met, which, by the way, is completely unsafe for about a million different reasons.”
Oh, good. We’re back to this again.
“So, what?” I hiss, lifting my chin. “You thought you’d play knight in shining armor and I’d be so honored to experience your magical penis that I’d just fall at your feet in gratitude?”
His eyes go wide and the hint of a smile tugs at his lips.
Which, fair, because yes, I just said magical penis, but he’s not getting off that easily.
No pun intended.
“You lied to me.”
For weeks.
The worst part? I actually thought we were becoming friends.
Or, if not friends, frenemies at least.
“I never lied to you,” he growls, stepping into my personal space. We’re so close I can feel the heat rolling off his body, smell the intoxicating scent of his cologne. See the way his pupils have gone wide, nearly swallowing the cerulean irises. “You never asked my name.”
He has a point, but I’m too pissed to care.
“And it didn’t occur to you that maybe you should volunteer it when you realized it was me you were talking to?”
How long has he known, anyway? Did he know the night we met up at The Den?
I can’t believe I’ve been talking to Cooper DeLaurentis all this time, asking him for advice.
It’s unreal.
This is like B grade romcom fodder.
“I wanted to tell you, but I wasn’t sure how.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly before he meets my stare again. “Can we go back to the room and discuss this in private?”
I open my mouth to argue, but he’s right. The last thing we need is an audience.
“Fine, but don’t think for a second that you can sweet talk your way out of this.”
25
COOPER
Quinn trailsme into the room, and I’m nervous as fuck. Probably because one wrong word—one wrong move—will have her bolting. Anger rolls off her in waves, but there’s hesitation written all over her face, and that means there’s still a chance I can salvage the night.
Give her space.
It goes against every instinct I possess, but I move to the far side of the room and lean against the ornately carved desk, crossing my ankles.
The relaxed posture is fake as hell, and completely at odds with the shit show in my head, but I’ll do whatever it takes to put Quinn at ease.
She already thinks you’re an asshole.
Which is why I need to let the angry tirade from the hall roll off my back, even if her assumptions burn like acid in my gut.
