One eyebrow lifts, then drops.
Nothing else.
The man of great speeches.
“Don’t ask,” I say, taking off my jacket.
He takes a sip, stares at the screen, and murmurs, “I wasn’t going to.”
That’s why I love him.
No questions, no judgment, no scolding.
Just sacred silence.
The least empathetic guy on the planet, with the expressiveness of a wooden table and the patience of a cactus.
I disappear down the hallway, take the stairs with my gym bag over my shoulder, and my brain in short circuit.
As soon as I enter the room, I close the door, flop onto the bed, and just lie there, staring at the ceiling.
I just want to unplug.
Empty my mind.
Breathe without every detail of her coming back to me.
But of course not.
The mind is a sadistic bitch.
And mine even more so.
Sloane Heart, the “professional-matchmaker-with-kissable-lips” version, is burned into my memory. Directly alongside Sloane Heart, the tempting-angel-cupid-fucking-hot version.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her.
I feel her.
The way I feel when I’m near her.
The sound that escapes her when I make her feel good.
And that damned scent burned into my nostrils.
Christ.
I need sleep, or a lobotomy.
I turn over on the bed, run a hand through my hair, breathe deeply.
Stop thinking about her.
Stop thinking about the sex, the kiss, her disinterest, and the fucking speed dating.
I close my eyes.
And of course, the phone vibrates.
