Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 87439 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 437(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87439 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 437(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Then it stops.
Then starts back up.
Then stops again.
When it doesn’t pick back up again, it’s soul-crushing. This has been my fear all along—that he wouldn’t come. And he won’t. I can feel it in my bones.
Once he had time away from me, he must’ve gotten his head on straight—as if anything is straight about any of this—and decided he couldn’t follow through with messing around with a guy.
I wish he would just say that, not leave me wondering what he’s thinking.
I know it’s a shit idea—if he needs space, I should give it to him—but I’m not letting him get away without telling me to my face, so I grab my keys and wallet and start for the door.
When I open it, I freeze in place. Lance is standing outside, wide-eyed, his phone in his hand.
As seems to be a familiar pattern for us the past few days, I’m thrown. “I thought you weren’t coming over,” I blurt.
His lips twist into a frown. “I considered it. Got to the door when you texted and figured this was my last chance to bail.” He smirks awkwardly, and all the frustration I’d worked up dissolves. Having him here brings me visceral relief.
I step aside so he can come in, then close the door.
“You want something to drink? I have some beer, White Claw…”
“I could have a White Claw.”
“I only have peach-flavored. That work?”
“This is Peach State. Why would we have any others?” He smiles, disarming me in that way he has.
I fetch two White Claws from my mini fridge. We pop them open and take sips. When Lance finally pulls the can away from his mouth, his tongue slides across his bottom lip, making my mouth water.
Yup. No question. This guy definitely does something to me.
“You got anything stronger?” he asks.
“You kidding me? What you want? Tequila? Gin?”
“Vodka?”
I crouch down and grab a small bottle of Absolut from the mini fridge.
Lance takes a much bigger gulp from his White Claw, and when I hand over the vodka, he screws off the top, pours a shot’s worth in the can, swirls it all together, and takes another drink. Guy’s got the right idea, so I do the same with my drink before setting the bottle of vodka on top of the mini fridge. When I finish mixing the vodka, I take another healthy, much-needed drink, enjoying the way the vodka stings lightly against my tongue.
“This would have been better to have in the library.” He takes another sip.
“Tell me about it.”
“So…I know we said we’d meet here and figure this out, but we weren’t exactly clear about the specifics.”
“That’s because I don’t know what we should be doing.” It was one thing to agree to meet up and do something to make sense of what’s happening between us. Another entirely to actually do it, so now we’re just standing around, uncomfortable as hell. “I don’t imagine we could be much more flaccid right now,” I joke.
“So maybe we figured it out.” His gaze meets mine, his cheeks that familiar shade of pink I’ve seen more the past few days. It stirs something in me that makes me aware we definitely haven’t figured it out.
“Maybe we get into my bed.” I try to sound chill—emphasis on try. “See what happens.”
His brows tug closer together. “This how slick you are with girls?”
“I’m actually disappointed because if I turn out to be bi, I’d hate to think this is how bad I’ll be at seducing guys.”
He laughs, breaking that tension once again before his expression turns serious and he glances at me, like he’s wondering whether he should have taken that as a joke. I can’t really help him there because I’m not all that sure myself.
He sets his can down on my nightstand, then sits on the edge of my bed. “Okay, let’s get this over with. Sit down next to me.”
I place my drink beside his and join him, keeping about half a foot between us. Some part of me is clearly still afraid of running this test, which makes me think that’s the very reason I need to do it.
Meanwhile, Lance is doing that thing where he’s not making eye contact. He’s not comfortable.
“Relax,” I say, “I’m not gonna lunge at you and start making out.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t sound like the way to do it.” He cringes, as though he’s disgusted by the idea, which is more than a little insulting.
“If you’re not into that, then maybe this is a bad idea.”
“We agreed this is the only way to know if this is something we’re into, right? Are you butthurt because I don’t want to jump right into making out with you?”
“No, but it doesn’t help that you made that face when I suggested it.”
“I don’t know what face I made, but you saw my dick earlier when we were talking in the conference room, so I wouldn’t take it as an insult.”