‘Let me take you out tomorrow night.’
‘A date?’ The words are a little shrill.
‘No more so than this.’ I gesture to the food. ‘Does it matter what we call it? It will still be you and me and all our hang-ups and reasons for not wanting more than this, just two people hanging out, having sex, eating some food, having some fun.’
‘And what do I get in exchange?’
I laugh. ‘Two people hanging out, having sex, eating some food, having some fun?’
She lifts a brow. ‘I thought you said a “deal”. That just sounds like an invitation.’
‘Fine. What do you want in exchange?’
She considers that for a moment. ‘That’s easy.’
‘Yeah?’
She pushes her bowl away and stands, holding a hand out to me. ‘I want multiple orgasms and twenty-four hours without hearing the word Hart.’
* * *
Give us an update, man. You’re killing us.
I read the text from Holden with a scowl and a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. The line I’m walking feels fraught on both sides. There’s Avery, who I want to make happy, and who I want to get to know better. There’s Avery, who I’m addicted to and driven to want to help through this. And then there’s these guys who I’ve known all my life, who I love like brothers. I jam my phone into my pocket, the sense that I’m being a terrible friend sitting heavily on my shoulders.
Except I’m not. I’m working hard to get Avery to open up to them—that must count for something, right?
CHAPTER NINE
THIS IS A DATE.
I don’t care what I said to Avery to get her to agree to this, it’s a straight-up date and I’m straight-up nervous. Me! Barrett Byron-Moore. I don’t think I’ve ever felt nervous before a date in my life. I love women, and that includes getting to know them. Most dates are the same—or similar enough—to know what to expect.
But Avery is different. I don’t want to do what I ordinarily would—dinner, drinks, dancing. The idea of anything so commonplace with someone like Avery almost makes me laugh.
No, I need to pull out the big guns—more than that, I want to. I want to surprise her, and I want to take her breath away. Multiple times.
* * *
I almost cancel on him. My fingers hover over the keyboard of my phone frequently. A couple of times I actually tap out a short message.
Something’s come up. I can’t make it.
But each time I delete the message, sending the words back into the ether and wondering why I ever agreed to this—and why I’m going along with it still.
What is it about Barrett that makes me put all my usual rules aside? They’re not even rules—they’re instincts—finely honed and always right. But with Barrett I ignore them, each and every time. He’s persuasive and he’s sexy but it’s more than that.
I like spending time with him, and I like the way I feel when I’m with him. I like the way he looks at me, the way he is with me. What the hell does that even mean?
I’ve been alone since Mom died and, realistically, a lot longer than that—Mom loved me to bits but she was never around. I don’t think I’ve ever really got comfortable with someone—to talk to them about me, my life, my losses. So why do I find myself opening up to Barrett?
Do you mind if we don’t talk about it?
When I asked about his sister and he shut the conversation down I was...hurt. And then surprised I cared so much. When had that even happened? And then curiosity took over, a curiosity I resented because when I wasn’t lifting my phone to cancel our plans I was tempted to load up an internet browser and search him—and his whole family.
The doorbell buzzes. Right on time.
My throat is thick with nerves, my heart racing. I take one last look at myself in the mirror, hating that I even care what I look like, hating that I spent so long choosing what to wear. What a freaking stereotype! In the end, I went for a summer maxi dress. It’s still stinking hot out there and in this dress I feel like me. I pulled my hair up into a loose bun on top of my head and applied some make-up—enhancing my lips and eyes.