"I'll sleep on my couch. You can have my bed. That way you don't have to deal with the subway or an Uber this late at night. It's my fault you're here so late at night, anyway."
"You'll sleep on the couch?" I repeat. "Is that just a line? I feel like it's a line that men say to get women back to their apartments, and I'm acting like one of those dumb women who fall for the line."
"I promise you, I will sleep on the couch," he says. "I'm not a dirtbag."
"I'm not a slut," I reply, though I'm not sure it was necessary to say out loud. I might sound more like a slut now that I said it, but I can't take it back.
"That escalated quickly," he says, sweeping a loose wave of hair away from my face. "Come on." He wraps his arm around my back and holds me against the side of his body, keeping me warm.
The walk takes less than a few minutes. Wesley lives in one of the beautiful historic buildings I've dreamed of living in. However, the rent is somewhere between five and seven grand a month for a place like this. I guess the rip-off modeling must pay well.
Wesley's unit is up on the second floor, right to the side of the stairwell landing. The doors are regal looking, and I'm dying to see inside. He has a keyless entry doorknob, which flawlessly swooshes open with a soft push on the door. "Ladies first," he says, waving me inside.
"Wow," I tell him, looking around. It's a lot bigger than I would have thought from the looks outside. "This place is beautiful."
"I get that a lot," he says, wiggling his brows. "I'm kidding. My grandfather owned the place and left it to me when he passed away a few years ago."
"Sorry to hear," I tell him. He doesn't seem bent out of shape over explaining why he lives here, so I won't push the subject.
"It's okay. He lived a good life. This place was a surprise though."
"Ah," I say.Crickets are chirping in my head. Time to show me to the bedroom so I can pass out, drunk girl style, fully dressed in my clothes.
Wesley closes the front door, and in a matter of three seconds, I end up back in his arms again. I make the plunge to kiss him this time, needing more. His lips are so soft, and he's not one of those sloppy kissers who leaves slobber all over my face. It's always uncomfortable when I have to wipe the remnants of spit off my upper lip. He's precise and accurate with his targets. It's nice. "I'm not sleeping with you tonight, so don't even think about it," he says, pulling away briefly.
"Good because I'm not sleeping with you either."
That would be the worst idea—the absolute worst. I will not make mistakes that could impact my confidence. I am a smart woman and I have everything I want. No, that's not true at all. I want more. I want something I'll regret.
