She bobs her head.
“Maybe I should call her.”
She shrugs. “If you do, ask her for her hair care routine.”
She doesn’t care who you call or who you date. This obsession train only runs one way.
I walk over, sitting on the same side of the bed, near the end. “Sure. Any other burning questions you want me to bring up?”
She ponders the question, already halfway done with the margarita.
“I would love to know if she has an eyelash growth serum. I’ve been looking for one. Also, how does she put up with someone like you?”
“Maybe you should just call her yourself, so I don’t forget anything.”
She slips her hair to the side, combing her fingers through the messy waves. My mouth waters, so I take a drink of the tart cocktail.
“Does she know who I am?”
I laugh. “No.”
She gulps down the rest of her drink. I study her, wondering what she expected me to say.
Why would I tell my hookup buddy about the girl I’ve been obsessed with since I was a teenager, who has suspiciously similar hair to hers?
“Welp, sucks that you guys broke up.”
The sudden urge to grab her hair fills my veins. I grip the comforter to steady myself. When I was with Noelle, I always fisted her hair when we had sex. As shameful as it was, I would close my eyes and pretend she was Summer.
I never expected to be faced with this unhealthy obsession again. I thought sleeping with a woman with hair that reminded me of hers would remain my dirty little secret, not my Achilles’ heel, haunting my memories and my current situation.
“We were never together. I don’t have time for a relationship.”
She snorts. “Right, right. I forgot.” She waves a hand at me, swaying to the side as she stands up. “I forgot you have to focus on your big bad business and stockpile of money. What a beautiful life purpose.”
She walks back over to the kitchen.
“You think maybe you’ve had enough? How much did you drink while you were out with that little guy?” I stand to help her.
She waves a hand at me. “I’m looking for a new cup. I need water.”
“Go sit. I’ll get it.” I fill a glass of water for her. “Here.”
She takes it from me and sighs. “I was pretending to like him,” she mumbles.
My heart skips a beat. “What?”
She peers up at me with her addictive green eyes. Her hand snakes out to grab mine. She pulls me down to the mattress beside her, her lips brushing up against my ear as she presses her chest up against my shoulder. “I was pretending to like him. Just like I have to pretend I don’t like you.”
I open my mouth, but words don’t come. Tingles spread over my skin as she traces her fingers from my hand, up my arm, to my shoulder. She squeezes.
“You have such big muscles.”
All my fantasies about Summer Lark Sullivan are rushing to the surface. She finally realizes why I treated her that way—because I was a jealous, stupid teenager with raging hormones and an incurable obsession.
I reach out my hand to cup her waist underneath her sweater. Her skin is warm to my touch.
“Your eyes are so green.”
