“Aside from the fact that hetouchedyou inappropriately?”
“I’ve fared worse.” According to his alarmed expression, this doesn’t appease Alex. “Aside from that.”
He walks forward and leans against the rail, looking out at the river. I turn my head toward him as a drop of condensation from his beer bottle falls to the street, stories below. “He’s got history with my father. If you must know.”
This piques my interest. A CEO and a board chairman at oddswith each other? “What kind of history?” I ask, too curious to play it cool.
Alex shakes his head, humming out a gentle laugh. “It’s hilarious you think I would just tell you that.”
A laugh slips out of me, too, escaping me against my will. Itishilarious that I thought he’d tell me that. We play nice at the office, but Alex isn’t naive, and I’ve never been any good at subtlety. HeknowsI’m not his biggest fan. Why would he tell me anything personal?
“That’s a first,” he murmurs, half smiling. Then adds, “That was a real laugh, too.”
I want to shove the sound back down my throat. “How do you know it was real?”
He leans in. Smelling like expensive cologne I’m probably allergic to and freshly laundered sheets. “I know it was real,” he says, “because I’ve never once been around you when your heart wasn’t pinned to your sleeve.”
Um…
What on earth is a girl supposed to say tothat?
Nothing, apparently. Alex doesn’t give me enough time to string together words in rebuttal, but he also can’t hide the blush that creeps into his cheeks just seconds before he says, “So. How does it feel to be the internet’s latest dream girl?”
When I only continue to look at him dumbly—still reeling from the heart-on-my-sleeve comment—he adds, “What, didn’t you hear?”
Oh, I’d heard. After the “Healthed-Up Hot Chicken” video went live two days ago, I got eight hundred new Instagram followers overnight and half a dozen texts from people I used to know. It had felt fun at first, and then fake. Then fun again, and stressful, and back to fake.
“I’m nobody’s dream girl.” My voice comes out hollower than I mean it to. My mind flashes to my ex-boyfriend, then away beforethe familiar sting of memory settles onto my skin like a sunburn. “People can’t like me if they don’t really know me.”
Alex frowns. His eyebrows draw together, asking a question I can nearly hear:Who really knows you?
I could count the number of people on one hand. That’s the difference between us.
“Well.” He scratches at his jaw. “Unlike you,Ihave a pathological need to be liked.”
I snort. “Why is that?”
“If I had a therapist, I’m sure they’d have ideas.” His tone is dark and amused. Then, as if brushing past the admission, he shoots me a pointed look. “It’s why you’re so frustrating.”
“Because I don’t like you?”
“Yes,” he agrees. “Makes me bitter.”
“At least we’re in that together.”
He drains his beer and deposits it on a waist-high bar table in the middle of the balcony. “Hang on. Has somethingI’vedone madeyoubitter?”
“Oh, come on.” I wait. He waits. “Alex, you can’t be serious.”
“Rarely.” He smirks. “But thatwasa serious question.”
I consider him, wondering how to play this. If he wants it all out there, I’m game.
“Tell me what you’re doing here,” I demand, taking an educated guess at his answer.
He laughs softly, amused at a private joke. But then the expression vanishes, and he admits, “I’m sometimes invited to stuff like this.”
“Why?” I ask. It’s a dare.
