The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient #3)(13)

Too dazed to come up with a suitable lie, I confess, “I was scared.” His amusement immediately melts away to be replaced with concern. “Of me?”

“No, not of you, not exactly.” In an effort to make him understand, words tumble rapidly from my mouth as I explain, “I’ve never done this before and I had all these ambitious plans but then I saw you and I started to worry I was taking advantage of you and I don’t want to hurt you because you’re so nice and—”

His expression softens with understanding, and he squeezes one of my hands in his. The sensation is so distracting that I completely forget what I was saying.

“Do you want to leave this place?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, so relieved that tears prick at my eyes. More than anything right now, I want to go home.

“Let’s go, then.” Holding my hand, he leads me through the people and out of the bar.

Outside, cool fresh air envelops me. It’s less chaotic, and some of the tension leaks from me. I wouldn’t say I’m relaxed, though. I’m still stressed halfway to death.

“I’m going to go,” I say as I let go of his hand and edge away from him, itching to put everything here behind me. “I’m really sorry. I hope you have better luck with someone else.”

He takes in the movement of my feet on the pavement and then searches my face intently. “We could try again. But only if you want.”

“You’d do that?” I ask, unable to keep the incredulity from my voice. “I just had a panic attack and hid from you in the bathroom for half an hour. You should never want to see me again.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Just because something isn’t perfect doesn’t mean we need to throw it away. Plus, tonight’s barely started.”

His words catch me off guard, and I stare at him for a moment. I need to run, to escape, to crumple up tonight like a ruined sketch and start with a fresh sheet. And he’s telling me not to. Worse than that, he makes perfect sense. And he’s smiling again, taking my breath away and making me stupid.

Angry discomfort claws through me, and I hate his smile for how much I like it. I know it’s illogical. I know it’s cowardly. But I back away from him farther, shaking my head.

“I’m sorry, but I just … can’t. I’m really so sorry,” I say, and I hurry away so I don’t have to see his disappointment.

The journey back to my place goes by in an anxious blur, and when I finally shut myself in my apartment, I take my high heels off and carelessly toss them aside on my way to the bathroom. I peel the red dress off and step into the shower, even though I showered a few hours ago. That’s the routine after I’ve been out—unless I simply don’t have the energy.

As I wash the makeup off my face and rinse the product out of my hair, I grimace at myself. What an abysmal waste. I should be at the bar right now drinking and flirting and being the most authentic version of myself—not to mention preparing to have life-altering adventure sex with an inappropriate yet exceedingly appealing man.

But I’m not. I’m home, where I’m safe. When I curl up on the couch in my pajamas and ugly fluffy bathrobe, I’m so relieved it’s disgusting.

I’m also very much alone, and my apartment feels emptier and colder than it ever has before. Because I need a connection to others, no matter how slim, I get my phone. Surprisingly, I have two messages from Quan.


Hey, I hope you’re ok.

Did you make it back in one piece?



Biting the inside of my cheek, I reply, At home. I feel so horrible that I did this to you. Thank you for checking up on me.

Don’t feel bad. You looked like you were having a rough time. I don’t really get it, but I get it, if you know what I mean, he says.

Against all odds, I find myself laughing. I don’t know what you mean.


I mean I don’t know exactly what you’re going through, but I know there’s something and I’m not taking it personal.



Something about his words makes my eyes water with tears even as I smile down at my phone. I’m trying to figure out what to say in response when I get another message from him.


I’m grabbing Mexican for dinner. What are you having?



The same, I say, but I’m not excited about it. It’s the last quarter of a giant super burrito that I’ve been slowly consuming over the past week. I’d say there’s a fifty-fifty chance it’ll give me stomach cramps, but I hate to waste food and there’s no way I’m leaving my apartment again today—unless there’s a fire, or a puppy stranded in the middle of the street with a truck barreling toward it, or a family emergency, something like that.

I’ll be home in about 30. Want to watch something with me tonight? he asks.

I cover my mouth as I process his unexpected invitation. It doesn’t make sense to me. But I like it. A lot. I can’t go out tonight, but I can do this.

I don’t really understand why you want to stay in with me, I tell him.

Why do you say that? he asks.


Because you’re … you. I saw you. You’re extremely attractive and good with people. If you go to a club or somewhere like that, you’ll have a date in minutes. Isn’t that what you’re looking for?