A Not So Meet Cute(95)

Hell, I barely have a grasp on what happened, but this is something I’d normally tell my sister right away. But after the rooftop, I wasn’t sure what to do. I felt . . . weird.

As if something wasn’t right.

And I know it wasn’t what I did, but more so what happened after. I wanted more, so much more with him, but, for the life of me, didn’t know how to express it. He’s been so hot and cold with me, so inconsistent with how he treats me, that I’m scared. I like him, a lot, and I’m unsure what that means for us, for me. I’m not sure if I can make a move, if I can tell him. If he even wants more with me.

He didn’t kiss me on Sunday when he had the perfect opportunity to do so. We were drenched from the rain, and there was nothing around us but nature. If he was going to kiss me at any point in time, it would’ve been then, but he didn’t, which leads me to believe that he has no desire to shift this relationship in any way. He’s told me he’s not wanting to blur the lines. He’s also told me he wants me to be happy. But why? Why does that matter to him, if I don’t really matter to him?

I joked about our agreement replicating that of Pretty Woman, me being the less whore-y version of Vivian, but instead of Vivian being the one who doesn’t kiss on the lips . . . it’s Huxley.

And if I learned anything from that movie, it’s that kissing means so much more. It carries weight. Kissing connects you on an intimate level and Huxley doesn’t want that. It’s evident. He might want my body, but he doesn’t want me.

Which, in return, makes me feel weird. But does that mean I want him?

“Lottie, you there?”

“Yeah, sorry.” I clear my throat. God, why am I getting emotional? I shouldn’t be getting emotional.

“What’s going on? Did something happen that you’re not telling me about?”

Wincing, I look up to the sky as I say, “I, uh, I might have done some things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Um, you know, like . . . I might have given him head in the shower, and then possibly dry-humped him on a roof.”

“What?” Kelsey screams into the phone. “Lottie, are you serious right now?”

“I wish I wasn’t.” I let out a deep breath. “God, Kelsey, I don’t know what’s happening to me. It all started with our pitch. He chose us, Kelsey. He chose us over Dave, and that, God, that crippled me. When I saw Dave show up, I thought we’d have to reschedule—that our chance was gone again—but he took our meeting instead, like he promised. It put a dent in the negative thoughts I had of the man. And then, this weekend . . .” I let out a deep sigh and rest my head against the brick. “He was different. Softer, didn’t have the edge he usually does. He joked, laughed, teased. And, yeah . . . he did more things than I care to admit.”

“Holy shit, Lottie. What does this mean?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, completely shocked I’m about to say this out loud. “It means I like him.”

“Wait . . . like . . . you like him, like him?”

“Yeah. And I shouldn’t. God, he’s been so mercurial. So up and down and straight-up assholish at times, but he also has this giving heart I can’t seem to ignore.”

“Oh, the same heart I kept telling you about?”

“This is your fault. You made me look at him differently.”

“This is not my fault. You’re the one who set out to find a rich husband.”

“I didn’t think it was actually going to happen,” I hiss into the phone. “Stuff like that doesn’t just work out for me.”

“Okay, so you like him, you put his penis in your mouth—what now?”

“I have no clue. I don’t know how to act around him. Not after what happened over the weekend, and there’s one thing I didn’t tell you about.”

“Uh, what else could there be? You dry-humped him on the roof.” She’s silent for a second and then says, “Let me guess—he has a big penis?”

“As if God couldn’t stop with the good looks, he had to bless him with the penis of all penises.”

“Figured as much. A man with such a stern gaze doesn’t have a floppy noodle between his legs.”

“More like a steel rod made to build skyscrapers.”

Kelsey lets out a laugh. “The imagery on that . . . too much.”

“But that wasn’t what I was going to say.”

“Obviously,” Kelsey says. “So, what is it?”

Feeling slightly embarrassed, I turn so my side is pressed up against the brick. For some reason, the position makes me feel less exposed. “He, uh . . . he didn’t kiss me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, during all of our escapades, he never once kissed me.”

“Oh . . .”

“Oh?” I repeat. “That doesn’t sound like a good ‘oh,’ that sounds like a sympathetic ‘oh.’”

“Not once?”

My stomach twists, and once again, my emotions roar with shame. “No,” I say solemnly. “What do you think that means?” When Kelsey doesn’t answer right away, I add, “That he’s Vivian-ing me, right?”

“Vivi-what?”