Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Deanna: Phone is about to die. I’ll keep him warm for you and bring him home early. Should I start with a lap dance or some light flashing?
Lexi: I would pay to see that.
Deanna: Love you.
Lexi: Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.
Deanna: Does that leave anything out?
Lexi: No.
Lexi: Where are you?
Deanna: I’ll send a pin.
I turn my phone on airplane mode and shove it in my purse right as River returns to the booth. He sets the drinks on the table and slides into the booth opposite mine.
“Any poison?” I curl my fingers around the stem of my glass.
“Likely.”
“She doesn’t forgive you?”
“She does.” He tests the drink. “She might do it anyway.”
“To hurt you?”
“Spare you.” He takes another sip. “Her words. ‘I hope that girl knows you’ll never love her.’”
“Tell her I do know.”
He looks at me funny, like he wants to object, but he doesn’t. “I guess I already know you don’t offend easily.”
“You don’t, either.”
He smirks. “I don’t remember you glaring at books as a kid.”
“What?”
“Were you always this cynical?”
I bring the drink to my lips, swallow a hearty mouthful of cosmo. Fuck, Alice is a great mixologist. Is that pomegranate? What a perfect addition. It’s not even pink anymore. It’s wine-red. The color of my favorite lipstick.
“That story about your parents?” River asks.
“What about them?”
“You don’t believe it,” he says.
I take another sip and let out a soft sigh. “Did you ask her to add the pomegranate?”
“She said you’d appreciate it.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m the kind of asshole who worships Hades and Persephone.”
A laugh spills from my lips.
“Exact quote.”
“She’s literary.”
“A musician with fuck-me tits can’t be literary?”
“Did you just say fuck-me tits?” I ask.
“Her words,” he says.
“You can’t say it. You’re a guy. It’s different.” I take another sip. “Do you worship Hades and Persephone?”
“Did you really not play Hades?” He refers to a Roguelike game that swept the scene a few years ago.
“My ex did.” And, yeah, I played with him. It’s a great game. Bright and fun and hard, with a million ways to customize, but I hate it now, because I think of him. “I don’t play games often.” Not anymore. I don’t have time.
“Why did you stop?”
“Why did you stop carrying Spider-Man comics everywhere?”
“It’s easier to read them on a tablet.”
“I’m too busy to play anymore,” I say.
“Was he the guy?” he asks.
“Who?”
“This ex. Is he the guy who turned you into a cynic?” River asks.
“I’m a realist,” I say. “And no. A guy didn’t turn me into anything. This is how I am.”
He doesn’t react to my accusation of assumption. “Did you love him?”
“Why? If I say yes, do you win our bet already?”
“Not necessarily.” He takes a sip and lets out a low, deep sigh. “Fuck. That is good. Did you love him?” he asks again.
“I thought so,” I say. “Now, I don’t know.”
He raises a brow.
“I don’t know if I really knew who he was.”
“What did you like about him?”
“Everything,” I say. “We made perfect sense on paper. Two programmers with similar interests and goals. We both loved puzzles and watching old movies and lying on the beach after a long day.”
“What about him, specifically?”
“I don’t want to think about him.”
“Why not?” he asks.
“Because he’s my ex. Because that phase of my life is over.”
He shakes his head. “Our agreement only works if I get full access.”
“Full access?”
“To anything I want to know.”
“If I say no?” I ask.
“I’ll call Lexi right now,” he says. “She’ll come here. Or we’ll meet at your place.”
“She’ll lose interest the second you two have sex.”
“According to you.” He pulls his cell from his pocket. “Let’s find out if you’re right.”
No. We won’t find out. We’ll never find out. “I liked his glasses.”
“His glasses?”
“He had these big, round, wire-framed glasses. Harry Potter glasses. They made him look smart in this sexy yet earnest way. I liked that.”
“How did you get together?”
The mix of lime and vodka dissolves a tiny hint of my inhibitions. “We were in the same data science study group, back in college. He’d always walk me home and we’d talk about teachers and what we wanted to do with our futures. And then, one night, when he walked me to the door—I lived on campus at UCI, during the school year—he said, ‘I’d like to kiss you’ and I said, ‘I’d like that, too,’ and he did.”
“He asked?”
“What? Are you going to say consent’s not sexy?”
“No.” He takes a long sip. “I’m surprised he’s the one who asked.”
“Why?”
“You seem like the type who steers.”
“Are you going to say I wear the pants, too?” I ask.
He laughs. “I’m not that stereotypical.” He studies me the same way he did earlier, like I’m a landscape he wants to understand. “Did you like it, him asking to kiss you?”
“He didn’t ask. He said he wanted to kiss me. That’s different.”