“Giving people shit is my love language, Quinnie. You’d best get used to it if you’re sticking around here for long.”
The embarrassment is still sharp in my chest, making me want to curl in on myself. Tears sting the back of my eyes.
Why am I being so weepy?
Oh, right. Tequila.
Damn bitch.
“Quinn?” Tripp pokes me in the side. “Are you crying?”
“No,” I say, sounding like a blubbering mess.
Tripp pulls me to his chest and envelops me in his warmth.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m not helping.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
He huffs out a small laugh, and I lay my head on his chest, taking in the black sky decorated with thousands of stars that shine brighter than diamonds.
“Stop dating douchebags,” he says after a beat. “That might solve your orgasm problem.”
“You haven’t even met them,” I grumble.
“If he’s not making sure you’re taken care of, he’s a douchebag.”
I glance up at him. “You’re saying I should date someone like you instead?”
He shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt.”
I mull that over as his arm tightens around me.
Could he be right?
Maybe it was time to shake things up—be less relationship-focused and play the field a little. Find a man who knew how to find the damn clit. Someone who didn’t just go through the motions and was interested in trying all the things my mind had conjured up from reading romance novels over the years.
I’d been through some awfully long dry spells. When my friends had been out partying and exploring their sexuality in college, I’d remained focused on studying. And veterinary school wasn’t a quick stop—it was a long, grueling haul.
Aside from that, I’d never been the one-night-stand type. I was a relationship girl through and through. But maybe Marlowe was right. Maybe I needed to have a little fun. Loosen up.
Although thathadbeen what I was trying to do tonight—and instead of getting laid, I ended up in Tripp’s truck bed, cuddled up to the one man I probably shouldn’t be thinking about likethis.
My eyes flick to him. He stares straight ahead, sipping at his bottle of water, effortlessly sexy.
The way his hair curls down around his ears. The way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. The dimples threatening to make an appearance every time he smiles. His skin, sun-kissed and golden from being outdoors all day.
He’s too handsome for his own good.
A thought hits me—dangerous, reckless, and tequila-fueled. And it feels like I’m standing on the precipice of something big—and possibly incredibly stupid.
I have just enough tequila left in my system not to filter the words that are going through my head.
“What if,” I say, my voice catching a little, “instead of dating a guylikeyou... you and I just fooled around a little?”
He’s mid-sip, and I immediately regret my words. Because instead of answering, he chokes on the water like I’ve just suggested we film a porno or run through town buck naked.
I cringe, mortified as he coughs and sputters, eyes watering.
