Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(20)
“Sure can. It’s called a mature, stable, adult relationship,” he says, elongating each syllable like I’m a small child.
“And you would know from personal experience?” My tone drips with sarcasm as I wait for him to tell me about Angie, the love of his life.
Instead, he fires laser beams at me as he carefully folds his empty fry container. “I’ve had two serious relationships, thank you.”
I hold out my hand, making a grabby-hands motion for his phone. “Let’s see them.”
He makes me wait a few blinks before begrudgingly relinquishing his phone. His first ex, Natalie Lowry, is stunning. She looks like a literal angel with her belly-button-length coffee-colored beach waves. “She was my high school girlfriend,” he tells me, promptly moving on to the next profile before I have the chance to press for backstory.
The second ex, Kyla Sheppard, is leggy, raven-haired, and reminds me a little of a younger Olivia Wilde. She’s mid-laugh in every one of her Instagram photos, which tells me she likes to have a good time—or at least wants to give that illusion.
“You should reach out to them.” I light up at the mere thought. “Maybe you and I could go on ex searches together.”
“No. I don’t want a girlfriend. Too much work.” He turns his phone facedown on the table, abruptly putting an end to that suggestion; stacks our trays; and dumps our trash in the bin.
What about Angie? I want to ask. But I refrain, instead grabbing my jacket to follow him outside, into the parking lot. “Is that a Jane Austen quote? You’re basically a walking example of romance.”
Trevor flashes me a flirty smile as he unlocks his car with his key fob. “Please don’t put me and romance in the same sentence.”
I pretend to laugh, when in reality, I’m more confused about him than ever.
? chapter nine
IT’S BEEN A week, and Angie’s identity still remains an unsolved mystery. Then again, I haven’t dared to come out and ask. Trevor and I haven’t seen much of each other due to our shift schedules, aside from the odd run-in while one is coming home and the other is leaving. Besides, poking around his love life like a thirsty Hollywood tabloid reporter feels needlessly cruel.
In the meantime, I’ve developed a theory: Angie is a woman Trevor is in love with but can’t have because she’s already married or engaged, which would explain the secrecy. Maybe they’re desperately in love but she’s been forced into a marriage of convenience she can’t escape.
After multiple back-to-back overtime shifts covering for all my colleagues who take time off for Thanksgiving, I’m off for the day, all by my lonesome, as Trevor is on day shift. Normally being alone for extended periods of time depresses me, but today I’m taking Mel’s advice to soak up the quiet and partake in some self-care. This includes a bag of chips, a stack of my favorite books, my rom-com soundtrack playlist, my weighted blanket, and maybe a little quality time with my vibrator.
Because life likes to give me a kick in the ass when I get too smug, I’m in the midst of the latter when Trevor returns home, whistling.
Shit.
Here’s the thing. I’ve made two grave errors. First, I’ve bought a louder-than-average vibrator (its volume is on par with a Dyson vacuum) with far too many fancy settings. Second, I failed to close my bedroom door, because Trevor wasn’t supposed to be home for another hour and a half. Damn him.
Panicked and sweaty, I attempt to hit the Off button on my device, but of course I end up increasing the intensity instead.
Trevor is already in my doorway by the time I’ve managed to locate the Off button. “Is it just me, or are you in the exact same position I left you in this morning?” His question is completely casual. But in my hot, bothered, and frustrated state, my brain can’t help but turn it sexual.
It doesn’t help that he’s in one of his tight-fitted navy-blue fire department T-shirts. It’s one of ten identical ones he keeps folded Marie Kondo–style in his dresser. I lurch upward when he leans his weight against my doorframe, his hair flopped over like it’s done with the day, one arm behind his back.
“You’re home!” I squeak.
“Yeah. One of the guys came in for his shift early.” He pauses, assessing me. “You feeling okay?”
I abandon my vibrator under the covers and run the back of my wrist over my forehead, which is definitely clammy. “Thriving. Never better!”
His brows raise in suspicion. “You sure? You look a little red and fevery. There’s a flu going around, you know.”
“I’d know if I had a fever. I’m a nurse.” I make a show of testing my temperature again with my wrist. “No fever. Just a little warm with the weighted blanket.”
“Right. Apologies, Nurse Chen.” When he grins at me, none the wiser, all the tension and frustration from being interrupted dissipates. Lately we’ve been bantering back and forth about who is the more qualified health professional. Trevor, who is technically also a certified medic, is very sure of himself. “Looks like you had a relaxing day.”
I shrug. “It was average. Kinda lonely, though, aside from my book boyfriends.” And my vibrator.
“These will keep you company.” He pulls his right arm from behind his back to reveal two Halloween-size bags of Cheetos in his right hand.