I am officially on top of Xander Miller.
“Fine, I’ll take the clothes back,” Xander says, waving the white flag. It comes out low and a little harsh. I stuff the boxer shorts into one hand and the T-shirt into the other. He mercifully takes them.
And just when I think it’s over, his eyes skate down my body and rest where our hips are pressed together. Fuck. I am officiallystraddlingXander Miller.
“Ash,” he says, strained. “You’re going to need to get off meright now.”
I scramble off him as quick as humanly possible, ignoring the hard lines of his belt buckle. At least, Ithinkit’s his belt buckle.
I turn to grab my bag before walking out the door, not looking back.
I hit the speed dial on Emily’s number. She picks up after one ring.
“Xander Miller is going to be the death of me,” I say at the exact moment I almost bump into Dr. Waitley.
Oh, shit.
“Morning, Ashleigh,” she says, unreadable as always. I hang up on Em while she’s in the middle of rallying me.
“Morning, Dr. Waitley,” I say, trying not to freak out.
Did she hear?
Are we fucked?
She studies me for a moment.
Oh, we’re so fucked.
But instead of calling me into her office, she offers me a curt nod. “Have a great day,” she says before continuing on her way.
Crisis averted. For now.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I round the corner from my bedroom with my freshly showered wet hair, acting like I know how to fly-kick the air like a certified ninja.
“Okay, Rocky,” Em says, stirring the hollandaise sauce. I throw a few air punches while running in place. A poor impression, but it makes her laugh.
Once the air conditioner of my car cooled me down, I called Em to let her know that our summer of self-defense did not go to waste. When she asked if I saw the eye ofhistiger, I promptly replied, “Ewww,” followed by, “No, but I might have touched it.”
No, I have not told my best friend, who has explicitly told me to fuck Xander, that we had a little late-night make out session. No good can come from her knowing I practically mauled him in the middle of the night. And yet, I can’t get the strained sound of my name in his throat out of my head. Like he had to muster up every ounce of restraint including past, present, and future just to function. I refuse to let myself smile at this, eventhough I am in the safety of my own home. I am not safe around Em, the enabler.
I bite my bottom lip as I walk behind her and pour us two giant mugs of coffee. “One day, you’re going to teach me how to make your hollandaise sauce,” I say as Em plates up. The thing I love about Em’s eggs benny is that she replaces the muffin with hash browns. She’s a genius.
“You know, today could be that day, it’s really not hard,” she starts to say, but is cut off by my phone vibrating on the bench next to her. Not gonna lie, one day is more of a state of mind than an actual moment in time. She peers at the screen and says, “It’s your mom. Am I answering it, or are we ignoring her?”
“Answer it. She’ll just call back,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee. She hits the answer button.
“You haven’t RSVPed to your father’s wedding,” Mom blasts through the loudspeaker. Never with the hello, how are you … Wait,what? “It’s next month!”
Before I have the chance to process, Mom says, “When we signed the contract, we were promised full creative control, and we all know sex sells,” which I have learned is not part of our conversation, but the second conversation she’s having at the same time. I called her out on it once, to which she replied, “If you don’t take the reins, no one else will.”
Today, though, I am thankful for her multitasking. I look over at Em as if she might be able to shed some light on this situation. In response she takes a sip of her coffee. Equally clueless.
“I’m sorry,” I say, walking up to the phone like distance has distorted the news. “But what did you just say?”
“Why haven’t you RSVPed to your father’s wedding?”
