Right Man, Right Time (The Vancouver Agitators, #3)(33)

“Interesting,” I say. “I mean, that’s not the end of the world. I’ve barely had sex.”

He stops at a red light and looks over at me. “What do you mean you’ve barely had sex?”

I shrug. “Yonny wasn’t that into it. I love the act of sex and living through a heart-beating orgasm. It’s the best feeling ever, so I never understood him. It really irritated me that he didn’t want to have sex that much. I started to think I was repulsive or something.”

“Not the case,” Silas says as we start moving again. “The dude probably had some sort of complex.”

“Maybe. Hard not to blame yourself, though, you know?”

“Don’t,” he says. “That’s all on him, trust me.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly, then stare out the window. I appreciate his reassurance, but I still can’t help to think it had something to do with me. Maybe my expectations were too high? “Do you remember the first time you looked at porn?” He coughs and pats his chest, causing me to laugh. “Sorry, that was kind of out of the blue. It was a bit of a rabbit trail in my head.”

“You think?”

“I was just thinking that maybe my expectations were too high with Yonny because of porn,” I say. “My friend showed me my first video our freshman year in high school. Her older brother had it all over his computer. I was fascinated. I remember going home and looking at it myself. I thought it was so hot. These people just getting off with each other. But when it came to the actual act of sex, I always felt intimidated. It took me a second to lose my virginity, and when I did, it was not the kind of experience I wanted to give myself.”

“No guy is good at sex when they’re younger. None.”

“I guess so. And with Yonny, he was . . . well, less than interested to say the least. I love playing with my nipples so much, and he never paid them any attention. He was in and out. Honestly, the only orgasms I’ve ever felt have been hand-delivered by me.”

From the corner of my eye, I catch his grip on the steering wheel tighten even further.

“Am I making you mad?” I ask, sensing the tension in his shoulders as well.

“Yeah, only because I can’t stand guys who don’t put in the effort.”

“Are you saying you put in the effort, Silas?” I ask teasingly.

He makes another right, then slowly pulls in front of a lavish hotel. When he puts the car in park, he turns toward me and says, “I don’t come until she comes.” And with that, he’s out of the car and moving around the front to open my door.





“Are you sure this is okay?” I ask, my palm feeling sweaty as I hold Silas’s hand.

“Can you stop asking?” he says. “Couples hold hands.”

“I know, I know, but this was supposed to be your ruse, not mine. I feel like I’m abusing the situation now. I owe you something, like . . . a new pair of skates.”

“For the love of God, don’t purchase me new skates. And you owe me nothing. This is the deal we made.”

“I know,” I whisper. “I just feel like we need to make more of a deal.” I spot an empty high-top table and tug on his hand. “Over here.”

I guide him through a crowd of people I know are staring at us. They started staring the moment we walked into the ballroom. I wasn’t aware of Silas’s popularity until we showed up here. There’s whispering, pointing, and talking behind hands. Apparently, I’m an absolute dumbass.

“Does this work?” I ask.

“Whatever you want,” he says just as a server approaches with glasses of champagne. Silas picks up a flute for each of us and hands me one.

I hold the glass up to him and say, “Thank you for coming here tonight.”

“No need to thank me. It’s part of the deal,” he says before clinking his glass against mine and taking a long sip of champagne.

“About that,” I say as I pick up a napkin from the table and pull a pen out of my clutch. Always come prepared. That’s what I say. “I think we need to make some ground rules.”

His brow rises. “Is that really necessary?”

“It would make me feel better because right now, I feel like I’m using you.”

“Jesus Christ, Ollie, I told you—”

“I know,” I say. “But please just humor me.”

“Fine.” He nods at the napkin. “You’re going to take notes?”

“No, I’m drawing up a contract.”

“On a napkin? Wow, really official.”

“Hey.” I tap the napkin and say, “We will live and die by this napkin. Got it?”

“Sure,” he answers while taking another sip of his champagne.

As I write, I talk out loud. “This hereby napkin will formally and legally bind Ollie Owens and Silas Taters to the following agenda below.”

“Agenda . . . fancy.”

I lean in and whisper, “I took one class in law as a prerequisite.”

“It’s like you’ve practically passed the Bar.” Silas grins.

“Right?” I smile and go back to the napkin. “Silas Taters, hereby known from here on out as Puck, will deliver the following to Ollie Owens, hereby known from here on out as Lipstick.”