“Are you sure you wouldn’t enjoy sex more?”
Laughter booms out of him. “Sex is great. But I have a feeling that this…” He points at me, then at himself. “This will be better.”
“I’m notdatingyou,” I breathe out.
“I’ll see you around, Freckles,” he says, standing up.
Goddamn it.
“You don’t even have my number!” I call after him as he walks away. “And I have yourshoes!”
“You said it yourself.” He turns to me. “Five thousand people in this town. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”
I watch him walk away, shoeless, for a moment, then walk in the opposite direction, toward The Oak’s parking lot, the same tingle spreading through my skin and deep beneath.
I can’t believe Rafael Gray just rejected me.
Again.
the friendly counsel[trope]
a well-meaning friend or relative who doles out unsolicited but oddly insightful advice that leads the main character to an epiphany
Across the table at The Oak, filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the warmth of sunlight streaming through large windows, Paige practically vibrates with excitement, her bright brown eyes wide as she stares at me. We do this every Saturday—though I sense today’s coffee fix will come with a side of romantic nonsense.
“Hold on a second,” she says in a hushed squeal.
Here we go.
“You asked out your lifelong crush,” she starts.
Quickly, I interject, “I didn’t ask him out. It was a ploy to leave the party.”
“He showered you with money.”
“Free money, technically,” I correct her.
“Then he said no to sex because he… wants to take things slow?”
I open my mouth to argue, but that part is pretty accurate.
“Scarlett.” She takes my hand over the table and squeezes. “Do you understand what’s happening?”
We just went through what’s happening, but I don’t think that’s what she means.
“You’relivingin a romance book.”
“See, this is why I debated telling you,” I say, pulling my hand back and glancing around. The soft clinking of mugs and the murmur of other conversations offer some cover, but Paige’s voice still carries.
Quentin, behind the bar, waves, and I wave back. The last thing I need is my ex hearing about this.
“Are you kidding? The bet, the secret identity, the nickname—and his shoes? Hisshoes, Scarlett.” She’s nearly bouncing in her seat, her waves bobbing with the motion. “He’s a classic book boyfriend.”
“How come when I say that a crime book is coming to life, I’m crazy, but when you compare my life to a romance book—”
“Because one is about love and the other is about murder.”
“Hmm.” I sip my cappuccino, savoring the rich foam on my lips. “I wouldn’t get all worked up if I were you.”
