I cross my legs, my cock protesting with a mind of its own.
“Thank you,” I say, folding my hands in my lap. “I hope… I hope this isn’t too much of a problem.”
He palms the steering wheel as he backs up in one swoop and takes off for the exit.
The lights of the city filter in through the windows, lighting him up like some angel.
“You are not a problem, Oliver, I assure you,” he says carefully.
“Yeah… but, I’m sure a busy man like you had plansafterwork, and they didn’t include driving me home.”
He focuses on the road, his jaw set.
“Nothing that can’t be rescheduled.”
Shit. So hedidhave plans. Plans I screwed up, but this is… good right?
I think so, so why do I feel bad? Why do I feel guilty if his attention is what I want?
“Not a hot date?” I say, trying to lighten the mood, but it comes out almost strangely jealous.
“No,” he says matter of factly.
“What about you?” he asks carefully.
“What about me?”
“You seemed to have no problem staying late. Nohot datefor you?”
I laugh nervously. “Um… no.” The words fall out of my mouth without warning. “I can’t remember the last time I went out on adate, period.”
It’s true. Robbie and I went out a bit when we first got together, but after a month or so our datesoutturned into datesinwhen I lost my job. I think about that for a moment, and it’s a bit depressing. I mean, we’re together, we should be going on dates, but instead I’m spending most of my time trying to dig myself out of this financial hole. Robbie, too, since he hasn’t made much of an effort to look for anything else. He just spends most of his time working on his computer, on “projects,” and acts like everything will just magically work itself out in between his trips to the bar.
But I guess this—being here, Sloane—I guess this is what he deems working out. But it’s still up tome.
What if I fuck it up somehow, what if—
“That’s unfortunate,” he says. “I would think a man like you would have a line of women out the door.”
I can’t help but laugh at his words. “Yeah… sure.”
He looks at me in question as he pulls up to a stop light.
“I’m serious,” he says flatly.
“No, just… no,” I say. “The only women lining up for me were the old ladies who wanted the latest Emily Henry book,” I say with a laugh.
He raises an eyebrow.
“Oh, um… I used to work at the Stonyville Library.” I clear my throat.
“Library, hmm?” Sloane’s voice is decadent and warm. Too warm for this damn car. I’m sweating. Seriously…
I clear my throat, knowing I need to make theotherthing known. Robbie mentioned I would need to clarify at some point, mypreferences, but that doesn’t mean I find it any easier.
I look at Sloane, at his sharp profile, his dark hair. His broad shoulders.
Telling him I’m gay is just… part of the act. It’s part of the script, but…
