She didn’t reply right away and I ran out of things to do on my phone.
When I looked up we were heading down the winding road in silence. I recognized the song that we were listening to. “So…” I shifted so I was half facing him, which put even more distance between us and allowed me to breathe.
He wasn’t a huge guy, but he took up the space around him. He had presence.
Back when I was a kid I’d been a munchkin in a regional performance of Wizard of Oz. My director was the first person who taught me about presence—who had it, who didn’t, how to create it.
Some people, like me, learned it. We studied it. We watched famous people and emulated them at every turn.
People like Jax…
I narrowed my eyes as I studied him. It probably came naturally to him. He took it for granted like he did the chiseled jaw and the dark, brooding eyes.
Jerk.
He glanced over at me with arched brows. “So…” he repeated when I failed to say anything more.
“Do you always drive around listening to your own band’s demo album?” I asked as mildly as possible. It still came out sounding snide.
“Ah,” he said. “So you recognize it.”
I frowned because…shoot. I’d forgotten that I’d pretended that I’d never heard of them. I lifted one shoulder. “You just told me all about your band, remember?” I feigned a rude yawn. “You told me all about it.”
His expression was one of amusement and shock. “Because you asked.”
“Uh huh.”
He shot me a look. “But that doesn’t explain how you recognized the song.”
I met his stare evenly until he had to look back to the road. “Tell me, Rose Parson. What else have you lied about?”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. He had some nerve accusing me of being the liar here. “Good question,” I said, lounging back against the window behind me. “You first.”
He gave his head a little shake. “I don’t get it. I really don’t. One minute you’re all sweet and giggly, and the next you’re…” He waved a hand toward me. “This.”
I kept silent.
He shot me a sidelong look. “Which one is the real Rose, hmm?”
I ignored that as well. He wouldn’t know the real Rose if she slapped him upside the head. I turned my head to face the road.
“Are you, like…a compulsive liar or something? Is that it?” he asked.
I inhaled quickly and it made a hissing sound. “I could ask you the same,” I said.
I felt his gaze on the side of my face. “Did I do something? Because last I remember, we were having fun.”
I scoffed. Fun. Right. Sure he was fun to flirt with, but not when the entire time he was talking I had to keep reminding myself that none of it was real. That he was just using me.
“Is anything with you real?” The frustration in his voice had me tensing, glancing over at him.
He was frowning at the road like it had just insulted him, his hands clenching the wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.
I was pissing him off.
Well, good. Get used to it. It had been a mistake to try and play his game, and I had every intention of telling him that.
“Is this why you’re such a good actress?” he said. “Because you just act all the time.”
“I’m a good actress because I rehearse and I study and I care about my craft.”
He looked over in surprise, and to be honest, I’d kind of surprised myself there with the passion in my voice. But that was the thing. He could call me a liar, he could say I was fake, he could accuse me of being vapid or shallow or flakey or vain…
But he better not dare call me a bad actress.
“Anyway, how would you know if I was a good actress or not?” I asked. “It’s not like you’ve ever come to one of my shows.”
He huffed as he shifted in his seat. “Why should I? I’m sure this might be a novel concept to you, princess, but not every guy wants to throw flowers at your feet after you’ve dumped him on his butt.”
“We agreed we’d be friends,” I shot back.
He arched his brows. “And you believed that?” He shook his head. “Do you honestly think that all your exes are sitting around wishing you well?”
No. I didn’t. Some were better about it than others, though.
Not all of them tried to win me back out of spite.
“The mature ones accept rejection and move on,” I said.
He snorted in disbelief. “No. The ‘mature’ ones, as you call them, just put on a happy face and then talk crap behind your back.”
I stared at him with a blank expression, hoping beyond hope that he couldn’t see how much that stung.
I guess I hadn’t really given much thought to what the guys I’d dated thought of me once things ended. When I was done with a guy, I was done. I’d sort of assumed that we all moved on.
Maybe that was too naïve.
The thought didn’t sit well.
I was not naïve.
There was a reason I had my rules. I’d thought this through. I followed a plan.
“The whole point of ending it early is so no one gets hurt.” I sort of meant to say that to myself. Instead, it came out of my mouth.
Too late I realized I’d once again given too much away.
Stupid headache. It was messing with my mojo.
He looked over once. Then he looked over again. If I thought maybe he’d let it go, I was wrong. “So, that’s your thing? You have a cutoff date for guys you date?”
I shrugged. Too late to deny it now. And besides, he already knew I didn’t do long-term relationships. Wasn’t that what his whole stupid bet was about?
“It’s easier that way,” I said.
“Easier for who?”
“Everyone.”
He turned to look at me. “No, it’s easier for you.”
I blinked a few times at the
