The Ex Files (Ocean View #1)(41)

“What if I’m not okay with that?” The other part of me wanted him to say that. To ask for more, more than I can give him. More than my shields will let him take.

“That’s not how this works, Luke.”

“Why not?”

“Because… it’s not.”

“But you’d don’t normally do… this, right?” For a moment, he looks panicked, and the look is kind of endearing.

“No, I don’t do this.” I laugh as relief covers his face.

“Got it, so you’re mine. I’m taking you to your dad’s wedding.”

“I can’t—”

“Give me this, sweetheart. Give me this. Give me the third date.” I look at him, struggling to say no. Struggling to say this is it, it ends today. “And give me the time in between. Two weeks? Give me that.”

“What?” I see the gears moving in his mind like he’s formulating a plan.

“Yeah, two weeks. You and me. We’re together, and then we have the third date. Then… then we’ll see.”

“Then I’ll set you up.”

“Then we’ll see.”

“Luke…”

“Sweetheart, give me two weeks.”

Staring at him, looking in those green eyes that hold nothing but honesty and loyalty and a look that tells me he wants to treasure me… I make the biggest leap I’ve ever made.

I say yes.





Eighteen





-Cassie-





“So, how does this work?” I ask over bagels, suddenly shy. After our morning activities, Luke ran down the street for one last favorite—everything bagels and cream cheesewhile I brewed us up some coffee and quickly rinsed off. Now we’re sitting on my couch eating, which, in itself, is a shock. I only ever eat at my kitchen table, a rule I broke for the first time since moving here with Gabi last week, but now it seems to have become the norm.

But if you’d have told my obsessive self last month I’d be eating everything bagels, with their plethora of seeds and seasonings and crumbs on my unbearably expensive designer couch, I’d have sent you to a mental hospital.

Yet here I sit, makeup free in leggings and a tee shirt, eating my bagel next to my date the morning after.

“How does what work?” He’s smiling at me like he knows what I’m asking but wants me to say it out loud. He seems to do this a lot, push my boundaries and make me open up.

“This… third date thing.”

“We’re dating.”

“What does that mean?” He stares at me, part confused, part delighted by the conversation.

“You don’t know what dating means? Aren’t you a matchmaker?” I roll my eyes in response.

“I know what dating is, but this is… unconventional. We’re temporary. Just until the wedding.”

“You can think that.” I ignore him.

“So, for the next two weeks, how does this work? Am I a booty call? Do we like… do things?” My fingers tear at the napkin as I ask, trying to avoid his eyes. Why am I so embarrassed by this? He’s right—I set people up for a living. This should be easy for me.

But it’s not.

Nothing with this man goes as I expect it to go. Everything about him is confusing to me. A finger goes under my chin, and when my eyes meet his, there’s frustration, anger in them.

“You are not a booty call.”

“So we’re not… going to… do this…,” my hands flit between us, “again?” Why am I disappointed I’m not sleeping with a match again? But he smiles, the full ‘Cassie’s being goofy’ smile with the dimple before his thumb moves to brush the corner of my mouth.

“Oh, we’re most definitely doing that again.”

“So I’m a booty call.”

“You call yourself that again, I’m gonna get pissed. You’re not a booty call. This is you giving me a shot.”

“Luke…”

“Call it what you want. But for two weeks, you’re mine.” His eyes hide nothing as they lock on mine, and he has to know, has to understand this can’t… it can’t be.

“Luke, we can’t—”

“We’ll worry about two weeks from now, two weeks from now. But, for now, live in today with me, yeah?” It’s the dimple that gets me, his sweet smile and the dimple and the green eyes which tell me everything a woman wants to hear. And the uptight librarian is yelling at me, shouting at me to use my head, to remember all men are the same. Once the rainbows and sweet dates melt away, he’ll be able to break my heart all the same.

Just like my dad did.

Just like every man I’ve ever been stupid enough to get involved with has done.

Unfortunately, the sex fiend who has been temporarily sated has decided she wants to keep getting hers and locks up the levelheaded one, so all I have is her chanting ‘G-spot orgasm!’ in my ear.

So for the second time in 12 hours, I make the leap of agreeing.

“Okay, Luke. I’m yours until the wedding.” I say the words precisely, knowing we need to end this once the date hits. His eyes darken for a split second, and I wonder if he’ll call me out, but he doesn’t, instead kissing me again before moving our food and drinks to the coffee table, covering my body with his and reminding me why I said yes.