Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(35)

? chapter thirteen


TREVOR STILL ISN’T home. It’s six, and according to his work schedule on the fridge, he was off at five. He’s certainly avoiding me. He’s probably spent the entire day plotting the least dramatic way to banish me from his apartment.

I’ve spent the afternoon cleaning like Cinderella. I even made a fresh batch of cupcakes from scratch, proudly displayed on the kitchen island for the taking. It’s a flimsy apology for trying to assault him with my lips, but it’s the best I could come up with on short notice.

Doing some book TikToks is the only thing that keeps my mind from twisting into a frenzy. I’m doing a fifteen-second book review video when Trevor’s muffled voice filters in from the hallway outside the door.

I set down my phone immediately, willing myself to loosen up. Play it cool. I can do this. I can face him like a grown-ass woman. I can bravely look him dead in the eyes after he blatantly rejected me. It’s fine. THIS IS FINE.

His deep voice carries over the jingle of his keys. Has he brought home a new conquest? I strain to listen for a second voice like the massive creep I am.

“You’re okay, though, right?” he asks.

Silence.

“Okay, good. I gotta go now, but—”

Silence.

“Yup. Love you, Angie.”

Angie. The same Angie he sent a basket of candy to. The Angie he loves?

I think about how Crystal laughed hysterically at the idea of him in a romantic relationship, and my stomach pinches harder than it should. I’m a statue, holding my breath so I can eavesdrop on the rest of the conversation when the door finally opens. There’s a dusting of snow on his beanie, which he shakes off while keeping his phone in between his ear and shoulder. He’s not ready for eye contact, laser focusing on unlacing his boots.

I wither a little inside, secretly wishing to fall into a wormhole and never return.

“Yup, sleep tight,” he says into the phone, giving me a vaguely dismissive chin nod as he ends the call.

Before he can even shrug off his coat, I’m hovering over him in the doorway, ready to launch into an already prepared speech.

“Hi,” I say, not so casually leaning a wrist on the wall. It’s a very awkward stance that I don’t recommend.

“Hi,” he says distractedly, meticulously rolling his hat into the sleeve of his coat. There’s a small ashy smudge on his left cheek from what I imagine was an eventful shift, being a hero and whatnot.

I brandish a bogus smile. “I made cupcakes. Used the same recipe you showed me. I think they turned out lumpy, but feel free to try them.”

He glances at them on the island and nods appreciatively.

We stand in a face-off for a torturous length of time before the word vomit pours out. “Trev, I’m really sorry about last night. I was such a mess after Brandon, and the hot tub made me loopy. I’ve read steam and alcohol can really—”

“It’s fine.” He holds up a hand to stop me but still doesn’t meet my gaze. He’s busy scrutinizing the heap of books in the middle of the living room floor.

“I’ll pick those up,” I promise, plowing forward. “I hate that I’ve made things weird by trying to kiss you. I swear I’m not harboring some weird obsession with you.”

“Really? You mean you don’t have a shrine to me in your closet?” he deadpans.

Did he just crack a joke? Surely this is a positive sign. I jump at the chance to play along. “Not a shrine, exactly. I have been collecting your hairs from the bathroom, though. I almost have a full lock now.”

He appraises me. “A full lock? You could do a lot with that.”

“Yeah. I’m thinking of splitting it half and half, a tuft for the voodoo doll and a sprinkle for the love potion I’ve been lacing your smoothies with,” I explain, matching his stern expression.

He clears his throat. “I have been coughing up a lot of hair balls recently.”

Neither of us wants to break character, but he relents, the corners of his lips unable to suppress his amusement. It’s only when his chest vibrates with a disarming, hearty laugh that my posture eases, thankful for a grain of normalcy.

“I’m being serious, though. I’m not into you that way,” I repeat for good measure. “But after last night, I consider you a good friend, and I don’t want to lose that. I know you may not think of me as a friend yet. But—”

“Of course I consider you a friend.” His tone is warm yet firm.

“Really?”

“Yup. I gotta keep you on my good side. You know too much about me and my secret spy identity. And now that I know you have a voodoo doll of me . . .” He gives me a small nudge with his elbow as he inches around me.

“Let’s just forget last night ever happened. Please?” I stick my hand out for a handshake, desperate to seal the deal before he changes his mind.

I’m relieved when he takes my hand in his, holding it firmly for a beat longer than expected. “Already forgotten, Chen.”

While he picks his choice of cupcake, I return to my spot on the couch. He settles next to me, apparently too exhausted to argue over my choice of entertainment: The Bachelor.

He squints at this season’s latest mediocre white boy, Wyatt from Texas, as he takes a shirtless jog through a tranquil meadow to get his head in the game for his group date with twenty women. “What’s so great about this show anyway? Isn’t it all fake?”