It’s never enough.
I bail on myself in favor of fumbling with Xander’s belt when there’s a knock on the door.
I freeze.
Xander breaks contact but instead of pulling away from me immediately, he rests his forehead on mine, lingering for a split second. I can see that I’ve managed to get the top button of his jeans undone and I’mthiscloseto ripping his belt through the loops and discarding it on the floor.
“Give us a minute,” Xander calls out to Ben. I take a step back, adjusting my sweats while Xander fixes his jeans.
When Ben finally enters, it only takes him one look between the two of us before he shakes his head and turns to leave again. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,pleasebe ready.” A pang of guilt sets in, and I look over at Xander.
He runs his hand through his curls. Stressed. Then, he opens his mouth and says, “Date me.”
“Date you?” I say, my mouth echoing my thoughts.Objection: I don’t date.
“Come on. I don’t think we’ll last in this study past tomorrow at this rate. Date me for the sake of staying in it?”
I puff my cheeks and blow out a steady stream of air.
Xander’s eyes slide to my mouth, unintentionally suggestive, before his eyes shoot back to mine. This time, his eyes do all the talking. Or pleading.
Fuck, he’s right. Because if there’s one thing I know to be true, it’s chapter four.The dating scene: where love and lust go to die.
“For the sake of the sleep study.” I nod, reluctantly agreeing.
“For the sake of the sleep study,” Xander agrees.
As I head over to my side of the bed, my arm brushes past Xander’s chest. How the arm nerve is connected to the thigh nerve I’ll never understand, but they’re talking to each other. I tell them to calm down.
Because I may have agreed to this, but there’s one thing we need to get clear right now—dating is not mating.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I didn’t realize that entering this establishment with Xander would turn my desperate attempt at getting as much caffeine into my body as humanly possible into date material, but let the record show, Xander and I are officially on a date. Dr. Waitley, are you seeing this?
After Ben finally wired us up after our shenanigans, Xander clocked the stressed-out expression on my face. He asked, “What’s up?” to which I said, “So … dating?” to which he said, “Ash, you do knowhowto date, right?” to which I lied and said, “I do,” to which Xander called out my bluff and said, “Dating isn’t fucking.”
That’s when I challenged him and said, “Oh yeah, what do you know about dating?” And that’s when I got the full rundown about what dating actually entails.
Apparently, to quote Xander, dating is about “spending time together.”
Groan.
“Getting to know each other.”
Sigh.
“Having fun together.”
Ew.
And “learning about each other’s goals and dreams.”
Thank you, Patron Saint of Dates. It sounds fucking horrible.
And yet, I’m on a date. And not just any date. One where I didn’t have to spend hours sweating under the intense lights of my bathroom only to fuck up my winged eyeliner using the kohl jet black waterproof one before sobbing in a heap on the floor, my confidence shattered thanks to a pencil.
I did go to the bathroom to splash my face with ice-cold water and stuff my long, unbrushed hair into a messy ponytail that looks more intentional and less slept in. I also texted Em to raincheck our hang, citing overtime at work, which she took as innuendo.
