“Fuck, you’re cute,” Gabriel says.
I take the vodka and drink, feeling the need for courage. “And you’re a flirt.” I lean back, spreading my arms over the back of the seat. “I’d only marry a butt plug if I were in love.”
“Excuse me?”
I laugh. “I’d only have a butt plug… Wait, that’s not right. I’d only use a butt… I wouldn’t do that anyway unless I was married.” I turn to my evening companion. “So don’t get any ideas.”
He nods appreciatively. “The traditional type.”
I pull out my phone. “Play me another one of your breakup songs.”
“I keep telling you, they’re not breakup songs.”
“Then why do they sound like breakup songs?”
“Because you’re drunk.”
“Tell me the truth,” I say, bantering. “How many times have you been dumped? Because with all the sex you have, it’s not zero.”
Gabriel turns his eyes away. We’ve been teasing each other and laughing all night, but like a light switching off, I feel a different reaction deep at his core.
“Oh, shit,” I say, fighting off a sick stomach as we rock. “I’m sorry.”
Gabriel takes the vodka back. “Three. Okay? Three times.” He forces a smile. “And because you’re so fucking cute, I’ll even tell you about them. But it’s not because I’m trying to get in your pants, okay?” He swigs. “Hell, even if I wanted to, I’d have to put a ring on it first.”
He doesn’t want to get in my pants.
That’s good. I don’t want him to. I don’t love his butt plugs, and Gabriel doesn’t love my butt plugs either.
Except I do want him to want to. I can still feel his mouth against mine.
He’s funny. And hot. And he got me on a Ferris wheel, which is pretty miraculous.
I frown at him. “You’re a rock star.”
He frowns back at me. “Fucking tennis jock,” he says, and we both erupt in laughter.
* * *
GABRIEL
“Exactly!” Spencer says as he points his burger at me. “How are we supposed to be the best at tennis and tennis, respectfully, if we’re preoccupied with marriages and social circles?”
“Tennis and rock guitar, respectively.”
“Respectfully,” he agrees and sucks from his milkshake. Scrunching up his nose, he looks at the cup. “Why does this taste weird?”
“Because you ordered the boozy version,” I remind him. I grab a handful of french fries, which I try to shove in his mouth. “Eat. You’ll be too hungover if you don’t.”
He pushes the fries away and grabs a napkin, wiping at his mouth. “But you don’t even have one friend? Like, have I told you about Alyssa?”
We’re sitting on the ground and facing an alley so that no one can see us, eating with our masks shoved up.
“First, your friend sounds amazing,” I tell him.
Spencer smiles, and he’s so goddamn cute and pure, I think I’m going to die.
“And no,” I continue, “as you define it, I do not have, technically, a friend.”
