Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(63)

His hand is still clasped around the back of my neck, his fingers moving in possessive circular strokes that do little to suppress the cavewoman inside me I didn’t know existed.

Just as I contemplate a side-aerial onto his lap, he rips his lips from mine.

For a span of far too many prolonged seconds, our faces are inches apart. His chest rises and falls rapidly, in sync with mine, heavy and labored, as if we’ve just completed a Spartan race, not made out for a mere few seconds. Or was it minutes? An hour? Who knows?

His horrified eyes fuse with mine. Lips parted ever so slightly. Head tilted like a dog. Expression of pure anguish, as if that was the single worst moment of his entire life.

He breaks eye contact, peering out the lobby window behind us. I follow his gaze to Daniel, strolling down the snowy sidewalk outside, his nose buried in his phone, none the wiser.

“What are you waiting for?” Trevor urges. When he leans in, I hold my breath. I half expect him to kiss me again, but all he does is shove me off the bench. “Go.”

My legs are no longer attached to my body. I’m like a shaky newborn deer. All limbs, no balance. No sense of direction.

By the time I actually reach the sidewalk, I can barely see ten feet in front of me. Trevor wasn’t wrong about the snowstorm. Everyone rushes by, heads down, hoods up, desperate for shelter from the harsh elements. A juicy snowflake pelts me straight in the eyeball.

Half-blind, I can only vaguely make out the back of Daniel’s head approaching the intersection. I make a weak attempt to call his name, but all that comes out is a muffled retch marred by the howl of nature. I’m helpless, frozen, watching him disappear into the white, icy void.

I should be pursuing him with the gusto I had all of an hour ago, but I’m too stunned to go on, thanks to Trevor Metcalfe.

By the time I have the wherewithal to return to Trevor’s vehicle, he’s already inside, seemingly dazed, staring straight ahead out the windshield, into the void.

The click of my seat belt quells the dense silence. “I couldn’t do it.”

He gives me a sideways glance. “Really? We came all the way here and you’re chickening out now?”

If I’m being honest, my mind is not in this conversation. It’s stuck on loop. On the events of literally a few minutes prior. “You kissed me.” My statement comes out harsher than I meant it to.

“I did,” he says, as if he can’t believe it himself.

It takes a lot to leave me speechless. And he’s succeeded. “Why?” I finally dare to ask.

As if he can sense I’m descending into an internal spiral, he presses his fingers over the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. It was a shitty thing to do. I wasn’t thinking. You asked me to hide you and I thought people would look away and . . .” His explanation is entirely logical. He’s told me this before, how PDA makes him cringe and turn away. “Please don’t read into this,” he begs.

The kiss wasn’t real. No feelings. Or rainbows. Or butterflies. Realistically, I should be grateful he had the wherewithal to try to conceal my stalking. He was being a good friend, helping me in dire straits, right? Why am I so disappointed?

“I’m not reading into it.” I might be.

“Are you sure?” he asks slowly, like he’s expecting me to confess my obsession with him right here, right now.

I hate that he sees me in such a pathetic light. “Relax. I’m not. I may be in the market for a soul mate, but even I’m not naive enough to think it would be you.”

He watches me for a moment, his expression stony. “Good.”

“And your kiss leaves a lot to be desired,” I add for good measure. I fold my arms and glare out the passenger window. It’s a lie, of course. It’s the best kiss I’ve ever had. But he can’t know that, lest his ego explode.

His stare burns through my profile, like he’s waiting for me to crack and admit his exceptional talent. “Excuse you. I’m a great kisser.”

“I’ve had better,” I say, suddenly very focused on the lint from my cable-knit sticking to my jeans.

“You’re lying. In fact, my skills have been corroborated by highly reliable sources.”

I shrug. “Sorry, Metcalfe. It is what it is. Maybe you’re just out of practice.”

When I don’t relent, he sighs and squints at the windshield like he’s trying to solve a riddle. “Anyways. We can’t do that. Ever again.”





? chapter twenty-two


WE DON’T TALK about the Kiss.

We don’t talk about it on the treacherously snowy drive home. We don’t talk about it as we hoof it up the stairs. We don’t talk about it while Trevor makes us a nutritious grilled chicken dinner. And we definitely don’t talk about it while we watch The Bachelor, him seated safely in the armchair instead of his usual spot on the couch.

Even days later, Trevor still takes painstaking efforts to avoid looking me in the eyes, like I’m a human solar eclipse. He’s also extra broody and grump-tastic, with his clipped one-syllable responses and general skulking about the apartment.

Meanwhile, I’m still struggling to understand what the hell happened in that lobby. Have I really had a lifetime of rusted Honda Civic–equivalent kisses? Because comparatively, Trevor’s kiss was like being behind the buttery leather wheel of Mel’s Tesla. Is it humanly possible to kiss someone like that—the fervent, suppressed passion of our breath colliding, him claiming me entirely—with zero authentic emotion spurring it on?