But I will say, he’s really not that bad. I’m almost reminded of why I liked him so much back in the day. His aura of mystery, his charming smile, his witty sense of humor.
He flashes me a look that could melt the rest of my ice cream. “Change your mind about me yet?”
My cheeks heat, and I look away, trying to muster up some sort of answer that doesn’t betray how close he is to the truth. “Hm? No.”
He raises an eyebrow. “No?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do I at least get to see your face?”
When I shake my head again, he fishes into his pocket. “Well, I still have about… fifty dollars’ worth of swoon to change your mind.”
“Good luck with that.” The streets are now empty, and I doubt there’s even a single thing open this late. There’s no way he’ll find somewhere to spend it all tonight, not unless he wants to drive to Springfield or Providence.
“Pretty sure the motel up the interstate has a forty-nine ninety-nine package. Room, entrance to the strip club,andbreakfast buffet.”
I glare at him, but it’s half-hearted.
“Ahh, there it is,” he says, pointing a finger at me as if it’s a grand discovery. “You want to be mad at me, but you can’t. You know what that means, don’t you?”
“That I’m tired?”
“Nope.” He leans back, watching me with a cocky grin. “It means youlikeme, Freckles.”
Likehim? No, I don’tlikehim.
The only boy Ieverliked is Rafael, and with how long it took me toun-like him, I’m not about to start again.
I shrug. “You keep telling yourself that.”
“I will. It makes me feel real good.” I roll my eyes, and he snickers, the sound soft and warm like caramel, blending with the light breeze and the smells of sweet waffle cones drifting from the ice cream shop.
“Idon’tlike you.” Feeling his gaze on me, I add, “Because I don’t like anyone.”
“Anyone?”
“Ever,” I admit, crossing my legs. Why am I even saying this to him? “If you’re looking for a reason not to date me, that’s probably it.”
I shoot him a quick look, and his expression is calm, not as surprised as I expected.
“You must have had a boyfriend or two at some point.”
“Just one. But it’s not for me. I can’t fall in love. Sometimes I think I might just… be incapable of it.”
He snaps his fingers. “Maybe you’re a psychopath.”
“Do I look like a psychopath?”
“Well, you keep saying you don’t like me.”
I let out a soft, amused breath, focusing on my cone.
“Could you be a lesbian?” he asks. “Because that thing you keep saying about how you don’t like me would make sense, then.”
“Oh God,” I whine, laughter bubbling up again.
“Okay, look,” he says, shifting to a more serious tone as he adjusts his mask. “We met at a singles event that you stayed at for exactly seven minutes before you plotted an escape. So… are you incapable of falling in love or just unwilling?”
