That way, no one gets hurt.
Because that would be inevitable, right?
Three months of pretending to date the same person every single day, games nights with my friends—apparently—and now he wants to add actual sex in a friends with benefits type of situation?
I may not be the best chef, but I know how to read a recipe, and that right there would be a recipe for disaster.
One that I would not volunteer to taste test.
Shaking the thought away, I compose myself, slide on my sandals, and head out the door. I wave goodnight to Marv, and step into my best friend’s fancy car, putting my foot on the gas.
Driving down Main Street, I take in all the small town stores, restaurants and Katie’s diner, shocked at how people can live such a slow,relaxinglife. That’s what Cassandra calls it, anyway.
I love how alive L.A. feels. I love the smell of the salt in the air from the beaches nearby. I love looking out the window of my salon, seeing guys with long hair tied on top of their heads, not a shirt in sight, and surfboards tucked comfortably under their arms. I love watching people line up for local gigs in bars on every corner, or people clearly wasted, and ready to take on the night—or day.
I just enjoy busy. My lifestyle is always go, go,go.But being here for the next few months will give me time to regroup, and to focus on things that are important.
That’s my hope, but I fear I’m fighting a losing battle, all because the hot guy from upstairs won’t leave my thoughts.
The only silver lining to being in Grangewood Creek is the lack of unannounced visits from my mom. The phone calls demanding cash are still well and truly existent, but at least I don’t have to worry about coming home to the smell of cigarettes and alcohol, or a man’s bare ass up in the air on my brand new sheets.
I park just outside the ice cream parlor, and head in to get myself a double scoop on a waffle cone, thankful that the sun is going down and there’s barely another person in sight.
I’d rather not have people around while I eat it. They probably won’t even look in my direction, but try telling that to my subconscious who is begging me to hide, and eat it in the car.
My mind races in the silence of this small town, the wordwhyconstantly floating around.
Whydoes he want to be friends with benefits with someone likeme?
Whydid he tell everyone that I was his?
Whydid he buy me flowers on the date of my actual birthday?
How did he even know it was my birthday?
Whydoes it bother me so much that he wants to publicly show me affection?
And most importantly,whydoes my frustration feel so forced?
Why does it excite me, and set all of my nerve endings on fire?
But I bet Cole would change his mind if he saw me like this.
I ignore the thought, pushing it completely out of my mind, and pat the sides of my mouth with a napkin.
Rising from the bench outside of the now-closed ice cream parlor, I pause when I hear someone call my name. Whipping my head around, I laugh in disbelief at the man who approaches with a wide spread grin across his face.
“Robbie?” I say with a smile. “I didn’t think you were still in town.” He bends to hug me and my arm wraps around his waist.
He’s fine as hell, don’t get me wrong, but there’s just something about him that screams friendwithoutbenefits, and he knows it, too.
That, and he slept with one someone I consider a sister.
“Harley and I just had to go over a few things, but I head out on Saturday morning.” He sits on the bench I’d just risen from, and I take a seat next to him.
We talk for a while about the set and how everything’s going, then I ask him if he’s going to the Wingrove games night tomorrow, to which he says ‘yes’, and the wheels turn in my head.
If the Wingrove’s want to meddle, let them meddle, but two can play at that game.
