Page 48 of Playing with the Heartbreaker

I open my mouth, then close it and shake my head. “You know what? It seems I’m fresh out of feelings for you.” Everything I’d bottled up inside for the last five months had come spilling out like water from a broken dam. And now that it was out, I felt different. Tired, sure. But lighter, too. The apology doesn’t erase everything that happened, even though he wants it to. I said my piece, and now I can go back to forgetting he exists. “I’m going to go find my friends now.”

He sighs. “See you around.”

I walk through the landscaped side-yard to avoid the slew of people pouring out onto the back patio. Guess they finished their line dancing.

I pause on the front porch, leaning against the banister and digesting everything that just happened. Did I really just yell at him? And did he really apologize?

Someone comes into my space. Before I look up, I smell the citrus, feel the Big Moment tingle on my neck. “You okay?” Rhoads asks.

I gaze out into the night. “Honest answer?”

He joins me, leaving barely an inch of space between us. “Always.”

“I don’t know.”

Silence falls as he waits, not pressing but giving me a chance to share more if I want to.

“I hate parties,” I say finally, tugging on one of my braids.

“Me too.” He follows my gaze out into the night.

“Why do we even come, then?” The smoky smell of bonfire wafts into my nose.

In the corner of my vision, Rhoads shrugs. “Obligation, I guess. Or expectation.”

“That’s a stupid reason.”

“Agreed. Can you click those heels and get us out of here?” He points at my shoes.

I laugh. “If only.”

“Well, what’s stopping you from leaving?”

“Anita is my ride, and I promised Charlotte…” I trail off, shrugging again. Goosebumps prickle my arms and legs. I should have ignored Charlotte’s advice and brought a jacket. A short sleeve minidress in mid-October is a dumb idea if you live in the Midwest. Though maybe not the dumbest one I’ve had tonight.

Rhoads takes off his leather jacket and drapes it around my shoulders before I can protest. It smells like car wash soap and feels like a warm hug. I sink into the comfort. “I could drive you,” he says. “I’m stone-cold sober, bored out of my mind, and I would love an excuse to get out of here. What do you say? You’d really be doing me a favor.”

“You really haven’t been drinking?”

His expression hardens, not with anger but a focused gravity. “Not a single drop. I would never drive after drinking. The risk isn’t worth it.”

I weigh my options. What did my friends say to me before we got here?

At least flirt with him.

Stop worrying so much.

Don’t think, just do.

Trust your gut.

“Alright, Simpson. I’m in.”

Twenty-One

CHLOE

Ipull out my phone and send Anita and Charlotte a group text.