He talks in complete sentences.
Doesn’t drop f-bombs every other word.
Doesn’t speed up my heart or kiss me roughly or make my knees tremble. But Ashton hadn’t done any of those things, either, at first. If at all.
Had Ashton ever made my knees weak?
I barely remember what it felt like to kiss him. And we were together for four years. Why, I hadn’t looked at any of his social media pages in over a week. Which must mean I’m over him. In fact, I’m sure if I checked now, I’d feel nothing.
So I set my coffee on my desk, pick up my phone, just to test. There’s an unread message from Natalie—a heads-up I’d missed, Hey, heard your class was canceled! Spencer’s coming over to hang the sign. I asked Gray, but he said he’s studying. Play nice, you two. Wish me luck on this test!
I’ll respond to her later, after I’m past the swirl of emotions from seeing Spencer. Which won’t be until the faint buzz of the drill outside stops and he leaves.
I click on Ashton’s profile. Swipe through images of palazzos and gelato—he doesn’t even like ice cream. What a pretentious twat.
And I don’t feel it. That deep-seated pain, that bottomless sense of dread and wonder at what he’s doing without me. I don’t feel any of it.
It worked.
My one night stand, my rebound—it worked.
I’m over him. Over Ashton. It’s done. I’m free. I can find love again. With someone sweet and caring and—
I pause on the next post. It’s not Ashton’s. Instead of the dramatic angles for effect that Ashton strives to snap with his phone—he thinks he’s being creative and unique, but they always come out ridiculous. He never listened to any of my photography advice, how am I just realizing this now?—this is a straight-on shot. A picture someone else took and tagged him in.
A photo. Of Ashton. Kissing another girl.
Just a peck on her cheek. But the way she leans into him, her hand on his chest. His arm around her shoulders. They’re both holding glasses of wine, and the post caption doesn’t give any explanation other than #winedown #winecountry #vino.
Those things I hadn’t felt, they come crawling up from the furthest depths of my heart.
Who is that girl? What is she doing with Ash? Had they been on a date? Or a group outing with other students in the study abroad program? Does she know about me, the girl he left behind?
I’m about to #vomit.
I shut off my phone before I do something I regret. Like comment on the post asking all those questions running through my mind. I brace my arms on my desk, counting to five with each breath.
The drill stops outside. The front door opens and closes.
I’m out my door before I know what I’m doing. Stomping down the stairs. Marching through the living room at the same time Spencer sets down the drill and stepladder by the kitchen entryway. He’s taken off his jacket and boots. When he sees me, one eyebrow raises, and he reaches for the mug of coffee on the counter.
I snatch it away. He scowls.
And I throw its contents on him.
“The fuck—” he shouts.
“You were supposed to help me get over him!” I shout back.
I step right up to him and poke a finger into the solid mass of muscle, his shirt soggy with coffee. The overwhelmingly heavy scent of raspberry adds to my ire. I poke again, harder. “One night, we agreed, you’d help me get him out of my system. You were supposed to cleanse my palate—”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“It didn’t work!”
“What didn’t work?”
“I thought you were a beast in bed. You said we’d have all night, that I wouldn’t be able to stand after. You said I’d come all over your cock. But you’re a liar. You and your stupid, dumb, stupid penis!”
I scream the last word at the top of my lungs, and it distantly echoes between us.
Spencer’s nostrils flare with each deep breath. Mine do the same, my face burning with heat and my pulse quickening everywhere.
A charge ripples in the space between our bodies. And I wonder what will happen next, how he’ll react to my outburst. My redhead temper. The one I normally tame down. Except when he’s around. Because he brings out the worst in me.
His temple ticks. He swallows, jaw tense. Scowling. Always scowling. That scowl drops, his gaze taking me in, as his mouth opens—
And he pauses, eyes glued to my front. “That’s my shirt.”
I look down. It is. The one he’d puked on the night he’d crashed on our couch. The one I’d washed, intending to give back.
I hadn’t. Because after combing over my closet and donating bags of items containing elastic, I’d had little left over to wear. So I’d kept it. It’s big, roomy. Soft and worn. Comforting.
As Spencer eyes his own shirt on me, tucked into the waistband of my flannel pajama pants, he reaches with a hand…
…and pulls off his own coffee-soaked shirt.
“Take it off,” he demands, tossing his shirt on the ground.
Those dark eyes glitter with a threat. Intimidating. Provoking. But I’m not scared.
Quite the opposite.
I stare at his chest, big and solid and strong and tensing with muscles. Drag my gaze to his mouth and think of it. Of our first kiss. The way he’d chased my lips with his. A game. Cat and mouse.
I step back. “No.”
He follows, bare chest grazing my breasts. “Stop fucking starting shit if you’re not going to finish it, princess.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about. But when I take another step towards the stairs, my knees are perceptively shaky.
“Take. It. The fuck. Off.”
I’m frozen to the spot. Caged in by his looming mass. All that muscle. Consumed with his eyes drinking me in. From my pajamas to my breasts, my mouth and back to my eyes. That dark gaze, boring into mine with fiery hints and fierce passion
