Page 68 of Slide

She stiffened then shoved at him. “I’m fine. Go back to your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” He didn’t know why he had the urge to explain himself to her.

Lucy snorted. “Figures.”

He gripped her biceps and looked down at her. Jesus, she was stunning. God, he shouldn’t be thinking about her like that. He had to curb this, stop this crush she had on him. Now. “I don’t want a girlfriend. I’m twenty-five. Why would I tie myself down with one woman?”

She blinked up at him, and sucked in a shaky breath. “Will you…will you ever want one? A girlfriend, I mean?”

Fuck. He shook his head. “Relationships aren’t for me, Luce. I don’t want that, and that will never change.” He tucked her hair behind her ear. “Understand what I’m saying?”

Her face flushed red.

“Luce—”

“Maybe I don’t want that either. Maybe I want to go out with loads of guys and—”

“Like hell,” he said.

“Why?” She scowled up at him. “Why can’t a girl sleep with whoever she wants and not be labeled a slut? Or a whore? It’s a double standard.”

“I agree, but that’s not you.” The idea made him crazy, made his damn blood boil.

“How the hell would you know?”

“I know you.”

“You think you do, but you don’t.” Anger flashed through her eyes. “I’m not even a virgin anymore,” she blurted.

He stilled, then something bigger than he knew what to do with expanded inside him, pushing him to almost breaking point. “Who?” he gritted out. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

“That’s none of your business.” She tried to pull away, but he couldn’t make himself let her go. “Why the hell do you care?”

“Jesus Christ, Lucy. You’re too damn young.”

“Kate Peters just started dating a guy who’s twenty-four. She’s seventeen.”

“Kate Peters’ boyfriend should be locked up.”

“I’m not a damn child!”

“Yes. You are.”

She froze in his arms, the flush on her cheeks darkening. “I want you to leave…”

“What are you doing up here?”

Lucy’s voice behind him yanked him from the memory, and his eyelids slid shut briefly before he turned to face her. She stood at the door, eyes glassy from crying like they’d been back then, but this time it had nothing to do with him.

“I just needed a minute.” He shrugged. “There’re a lot of people down there.”

She searched his gaze. “Not that many.”

He glanced down at the book in his hands again then back at her, trying to work out what to say.

She motioned to the book, slender throat working. “Christina Rossetti’s one of my favorite poets.”

An image of her by the lake, looking up to the sky as she recited one of her other favorite poets, rushed through his mind and pain lanced through him. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said.