Page 75 of The Casanova Complex

“Merritt,” I say, standing from the bed when she doesn’t answer me. “Would you just stop for two seconds and talk to me? What’s wrong?”

Of course, she ignores me completely as she moves with lightning-quick speed to slip her feet back into her shoes.

In two strides, I’m behind her, curling my fingers around her upper arm to stop her frantic rush to leave. “Merritt.”

She stiffens, and a beat passes before she turns around, her eyes blazing with anger.

Anger that I don’t fucking understand.

“I just wanted t⁠—”

Abruptly, she cuts me off, shaking her head. “Don’t. I don’t even want to hear it. Do not.”

“Too fucking bad,” I say, not letting her yank from my hold. I’m not holding her roughly, but I’m also not letting her run away when she’s clearly upset, when she’s clearly pushing me away for whatever reason.

Her mouth falls open, but she snaps it shut, avoiding my gaze, looking anywhere in the room but where I’m standing.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

The muscle in her jaw works, but she doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t even look at me.

Frustration spears my chest, and I reach for her chin, grasping it between my fingers and forcing her to look at me.

“What’s. Wrong.”

“Nothing.”

I scoff, shaking my head, a humorless laugh spilling out of me. “Don’t lie to me, Merritt. Something clearly upset you when I tapped the brakes for a single second, and I want to know what it is.”

She finally lifts her eyes up to mine, and what I see makes my stomach twist into a knot. It’s not just anger shining back at me; it’s unshed tears of… hurt.

What the fuck?

“Hey,” I murmur when she tries to pull away from me. “Talk to me. Please? Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter. Look, I need to go.”

I hate that her voice sounds strained and that, for some reason, it has to do with me.

“It does matter. It matters a hell of a fucking lot to me, Merritt.”

Her throat bobs as she swallows roughly, and then her warm brown eyes slide to mine. “There’s nothing else to say. You made it crystal clear just now you don’t want me.”

“What? That is not at fucking all what is happening,” I mutter vehemently.

“Fool me once, shame on you. But fool me twice…”

When my brow furrows, a laugh rakes out of her, and she scoffs, her expression incredulous.

“You really don’t remember. I thought tonight might’ve jogged your memory, but clearly, I was wrong.” She pauses before saying, “Creative Writing isn’t the first time we’ve met, Bennett. And that day in the bakery wasn’t the first time we kissed.”

What?

What does she mean that wasn’t the first time we’d kissed. Until this class, I’d never even met her before, so what in the hell is she talking about?

A resigned sigh pours out of her, and she crosses her arms over her chest, taking a step back from me. “We hooked up sophomore year. We almost…”