Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(55)

“Do you have a condom?” Mitch whispers, tickling my neck with his moist breath.

My eyes snap open. As someone who doesn’t typically sleep with guys who aren’t my long-term boyfriend, I haven’t purchased condoms in years. “Oh. Damn. No, I don’t.”

“Shit. Me either,” he mutters, leaning back onto his knees. What guy doesn’t have a ten-year-old expired condom folded in his wallet? Really, Mitch?

Clearly he’s not exactly a pro at this random hookup thing, either. And that’s when I remember. I know someone who is. I leap out of bed like a trapeze artist. “Hold on. My roommate will have one.” I jog across the hall and knock.

Through the door, there’s a heavy sigh, followed by footsteps. When Trevor pulls the door open, he’s shirtless, his hair disheveled. “You okay?”

“Superb. Never better. Actually, I just need a condom,” I tell him with the casual air of a frat bro who freeloads condoms on the regular.

His face hardens, evidently irked I woke him up for this.

I cross my arms, refusing to let him guilt me after the three times his sex-capades woke me out of my peaceful slumber. “Would you prefer I have unprotected sex with a stranger and contract an STI?”

He sighs and stomps to his side table to grab two condoms. “Here.” He thrusts them into my hand. Then, without another word, he slams the door in my face.

I peer at the condoms and work down the lump in my throat. I’m doing this. I’m going to have sex with Mitch.

This is fine. No. This is great. Marvelous. Perfectly splendid.

Or is it?

My current stance (palms to knees, hyperventilating) tells me otherwise.

I remind myself why I’m so hell-bent on a one-night stand to begin with. I’m sexually frustrated. And more than that, I want to lose all inhibition and have casual sex, like everyone else my age seems to do without a care in the world. There’s nothing wrong with it morally. And yet, I can’t ignore the overwhelming urge to slam the brakes. Stat. Will sleeping with sloppy Mitch be any better than taking care of business all by myself? At this rate, probably not.

“Did you get them?” Mitch asks from the end of the bed.

“Yeah.” I hold them up like a sad carnival prize from the doorway, keeping my distance. “Mitch? I’m really sorry, but . . . I don’t think I can do this.”

His brows dip. “Oh, okay. Did I do anything to make you feel uncomfortable?”

“No. Definitely not. You’ve been great. I just don’t know if I’m cut out for one-night stands.”

He scratches the side of his head like he’s in deep thought. “I’m kind of thinking the same thing, if I’m being honest. I mean, you’re beautiful. I just . . .”

“It’s just not right.” My shoulders ease in relief.

We nod in mutual understanding, and I see him out. When I close the door and turn around, Trevor is sitting in the chair in the living room, one of my thriller books in hand.

I muffle a scream, clasping my palm to my chest. “Holy shit, Metcalfe. Why are you sitting out here in the cloak of darkness like a weirdo?”

He sets my book on his lap. “Couldn’t sleep after you woke me up. Figured I’d try finishing my book.”

“Oh.” My hand is still pressed to my chest, feeling the thrum of my heart beating wildly from the events of this strange night.

He’s looking at me, his expression unreadable. I don’t know if he’s going to chew me out for waking him up or say I told you so. He doesn’t do either. He stands and comes toward me, making a come here motion. “You okay?” he asks, pulling me into a hug.

I sigh into the warmth of his bare, solid chest, which is more reassuring than I’ll ever admit. My heart rate settles immediately at his touch. I wish I could close my eyes and stay here until the sun comes up and goes back down again. “I’m not cut out for that life. I don’t know how you do it. I’m exhausted, and I didn’t even get it in.”

“Please don’t say get it in.”

“Do you prefer going to bone town?”

“No.”

“Bumping uglies?”

“No.”

“Boinking? Bruising the beef curtains?”

He closes his eyes, pained. “Never say any of those again.”

“No promises.”

The rumble of his low chuckle gives me an overwhelming sense of comfort. “You are just . . .”

I peek up at him. “I’m just what?”

A brief smile plays across his lips. “Nothing. Wanna go get a greasy twenty-four-hour-diner breakfast?”

“Yes, please.”





? chapter nineteen


ARE YOU AND Uncle Trev an item?” Angie so bluntly wants to know. She casts a suspicious eye at the folded red construction paper in my hand. Arts and crafts with Angie during lunch break has become a regular routine. We’re making Valentine’s Day cards today.

I’m particularly thankful for the opportunity to pretend I’m a child for an hour. Prior to lunch, we had our bimonthly NICU all-staff meeting. Seth used the opportunity to launch a number of petty, non-job-related claims.

People have been stockpiling the good Keurig pods.

People have been clogging the kitchen sink with their lunch containers.