Page 213 of Mad Girl

I blinked, still clutching your hand in mine, jealousy raging through my veins. “Quite a few?”

You sighed. “Yes.”

“What about girls?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

Starved for details, I wanted them all, even if they hurt me. The real you. The hidden you. The dark you. “Yes. How many?”

“More than quite a few.” You winced again. “Quite a bit more.”

“Wow. So you know your way around the whole damn block, don’t you?”

“That’s”—eyes narrowed, little throat clear here—“one way of putting it.”

“I don’t like that.” I pushed your hand off my knee, shifting my body away from yours.

You flinched as I slid across the sofa. “I don’t, either. I’m ashamed of it. I didn’t think it would ever matter, because for the longest time, I didn’t think”—hard swallow—“I mattered. I didn’t think anyone would ever care. Then I met you, and now I wish I’d done”—a pause here, your gaze probing mine—“everything differently. I look at you, and you’re⁠—”

“Don’t you dare say innocent. I’m not nearly as innocent as you think, and my level of experience—compared to yours—isn’t by choice.”

But that wasn’t entirely true. Take Willoughby, for instance, and all those make-out sessions in my room. Every time we got close, I pulled back, heart beating too fast, terrified to continue.

“No, I know,” you said. “I wasn’t going to say innocent. I meant to say—you’re the first person to make me feel I don’t want that anymore, going from one meaningless hookup to the next. It isn’t worth it.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, Casey, so I said nothing at all. It’s not like your feelings mattered, anyway. If they did, you’d stop me from seeing Willoughby.

“Hey. Do you think—?” You stopped. Closed your eyes. Shook your head. “Never mind.”

“No, tell me. What is it?”

“Maybe it’s not you Nic didn’t want at the rally, but me. I’m a liability, you know? To the Harrises? Maybe he wants to keep me hidden until the election’s over.”

“But there’s no way anyone would ever suspect you of being who you are. Everyone thinks you’re, like, my companion or bodyguard or something.” I rolled my eyes. “Also—you’re British.”

You leaned back, mouth agape, a smile creeping across your face. “Oh, am I now?”

“Wait.” I threw my hands up. “Hold on⁠—”

“No, no,” you said, pointing at me. “You’ve just admitted it.”

“What I mean is, people think you’re British. Because of the accent.”

“They also think I’m British,” you said slowly, “because I’m from a place in Great Britain called London, England.”

“Yes, but you didn’t originate there and neither did your parents—or your grandparents. So I’m sorry, but technically you’re not British.” I gave you a smile like, Aha! Got you there. I’m right.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” you muttered with an eye roll.

“Anyway, as I was saying, me and my dad are the only ones who know that you were actually born in Boston.”

“You forget there’s one other person who knows that,” you said, giving me a look. “Sienna.”

Damn. Somehow, I had forgotten about that bitch, despite Bree’s revelation a few days prior. “But you never told her the results of the paternity test, right?”

“Right. She thinks I’ve given up the search for my biological father now that I know he’s not Nic. But she’s very clever. She might start to question why I still don’t want Michael to know how we met.” You wiped a hand down your face and groaned. “What if she slips and says something to someone? What if she slips to Michael?”

“That’s why you need to be the one to tell the Harrises,” I said, “and you need to do it soon.”