16. Jenna
Chapter sixteen
Jenna
The flowers.
I didn’t ask for those.
But the kiss, I did.
And they both left me feeling the same way.
Irritated.
I told him he could kiss me, and when he did, it left me desperate for more.
And now because I know what it’s like to have Cole Green at my disposal, I’m torn between wanting to give it all back, or take him to the nearest bedroom, have my way with him, then leave town and never see him again.
But that feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me I’d be making a mistake if I slept with him again.
That I’d regret it.
While we’re at work, I would play his little game. I would accept the birthday flowers—that I deep down hoped would be from my mom—and I would allow him to dote on me as much as he wanted. But behind closed doors? We weren’t anything other than colleagues.
At least, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell myself, anyway.
I’ve relied on my trusty friend in my top drawer a little too often this week, but I fear the poor thing is going to get the workout of a century and potentially break if I don’t distract myself and leave my apartment.
God, I’m turning into a horny, sex crazed maniac, all because I can’t accept that a man might want me for more than one night.
Correction.
He might want my body for more than one night. Not me .
I keep reminding myself that if anything were to happen between us, it would be strictly sex—nothing more. But that’s a concept that I just can’t seem to grasp.
My body is aching to feel his against mine again, and after that stupid kiss that should never have happened… Shit, what a mess.
And I told him to not ask next time? Do I have any brain cells left, or am I letting my sex drive do all the talking?
And they say men think with their dicks.
At this rate, cast me into the same ocean and leave me there to think about my actions.
It’s like, because I know what it feels like to have him, my pussy is begging for him, but my mind is staying strong, firm on my final answer being a hard no. I just went against everything I believe in by telling him that he could kiss me whenever he wanted, but he laughed before he stepped into the elevator.
He laughed.
Did he laugh because he knew the effect he’d just had on me, or because he thought that by me giving in to that kiss, it meant he had won whatever game we were playing?
Does that mean it’s over?
Resting my back against the cold, wooden door, I push off it and take a few steps to my fridge before searching for ice in the freezer and any drink other than water. But I come up short.
“Fucking dammit,” I mutter to myself, with Cassandra’s keys—my temporary keys—still in my purse. I take it as a sign to finally explore the town that I’ll be calling home for the next few months.
My phone vibrates in my hand, stopping me in my tracks.
Taking a deep breath, I flip the phone over, and see the same unknown number from the other day reappear on my screen.
I know exactly who it is, but I refuse to save it.
His number alone makes me feel all kinds of things. Could you imagine what seeing his name would do?
And if his name were just…in my phone, I would feel tempted to use it.
I’m a serial texter, so I’d probably abuse his number until he gets sick of me.
That might not be a bad idea…
Shaking the thoughts out of my head, I open the texts.
Unknown: How does friends with benefits sound?
Unknown: Because I’ll be honest, being your pretend boyfriend is fun and all, but, hell, there’s nothing fake about the things I want to do to you.
I smile—hard.
Especially knowing he can’t see me looking like a giddy teenager because of the texts he’d just sent me.
He just wants you for your body , the devil inside reminds me, but I will it away and focus on my screen. On the way his words made me feel.
It makes me want to fuck with him—just this once.
After all, he’s the reason we’re even in this predicament.
If he didn’t pretend to be my boyfriend that very first night, I wouldn’t have known who he was that first day on set. We would’ve had a regular, colleague relationship.
My fingers tap away on the screen, my chuckle turning chaotic when my first message sends as I wait for his response to come through.
Me: Sorry, who’s this?
Unknown: How many fake boyfriends do you have?
Me: Depends who you ask.
Me: Wait…Robbie? I thought I had your number saved.
Me: This is a little unexpected, but I mean…why not?
Me: You know where to find me.
I send the last text with a grin so wide, my cheeks are starting to hurt, and my face heats. The little gray dots appear and disappear on my screen so frequently, I’m almost certain it’s glitching.
Until they disappear completely.
Heading to my room to slip into something more comfortable, I rummage through my drawers, pulling out black bike shorts, shimmying them up my thick thighs, and an old, oversized Paramore shirt that I throw over my head.
A fist pounds at my door, and it startles me.
With my heart hammering in my throat, I shout, “Hold on,” making sure I look semi presentable in the floor-length mirror against the back of my door, phone and keys in hand, my sunglasses now resting on my head.
“Who the fuck is Robbie?” Cole yells the second my door whips open, and he stalks inside. His frustration is obvious as he rests his palms on my kitchen countertop.
His triceps bulge through his dark gray t-shirt, and I don’t know how they don’t rip his sleeves to shreds.
I hate that my mouth salivates at the mere sight of a visibly jealous Cole.
It just…does something to me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I shrug, clenching my thighs together while playing ignorant. Like these types of conversations are the most natural thing in the world. “ Oh , you mean Robbie Crossland ?” I sing out his last name, because I saw the way he tried to act cool in front of Harley, and that alone told me he was a fan of football. And if he was a fan of Harley when he was the Eagles superstar quarterback, he’d definitely be a fan of Robbie.
“Robbie fucking Crossland is who I have to compete with?” he spits. His grip tightening on the edge of the stone top, his knuckles turning white.
“Compete with? As far as I’m concerned, Cole, there is no competition. You and I are pretending to date for work, remember? All because you thought it was funny to let everyone know that I was off limits.” I hold the door open, hoping he takes the hint to leave. “Behind closed doors, I do who I want and what I want. But I promise, in front of people we work with, I’ll be the world’s best girlfriend.” I need time to compose myself before I break character and drag him into my room for the night.
You’d think I was the actor out of the two of us.
“You’re right.” He sighs with a slight nod, raising his hands, and accepting defeat. “I guess I’ll see you at work, Jenna.” He stalks out of my apartment, and slams my door behind him. My stomach twists at the realization that he didn’t find my joke funny at all.
In fact, he downright hated it.
Good , I remind myself. It’s better this way.
Keep it strictly… romance at work, while being nothing to each other, everywhere else.
That way, no one gets hurt.
Because that would be inevitable, right?
Three months of pretending to date the same person every single day, games nights with my friends—apparently—and now he wants to add actual sex in a friends with benefits type of situation?
I may not be the best chef, but I know how to read a recipe, and that right there would be a recipe for disaster.
One that I would not volunteer to taste test.
Shaking the thought away, I compose myself, slide on my sandals, and head out the door. I wave goodnight to Marv, and step into my best friend’s fancy car, putting my foot on the gas.
Driving down Main Street, I take in all the small town stores, restaurants and Katie’s diner, shocked at how people can live such a slow, relaxing life. That’s what Cassandra calls it, anyway.
I love how alive L.A. feels. I love the smell of the salt in the air from the beaches nearby. I love looking out the window of my salon, seeing guys with long hair tied on top of their heads, not a shirt in sight, and surfboards tucked comfortably under their arms. I love watching people line up for local gigs in bars on every corner, or people clearly wasted, and ready to take on the night—or day.
I just enjoy busy. My lifestyle is always go, go, go. But being here for the next few months will give me time to regroup, and to focus on things that are important.
That’s my hope, but I fear I’m fighting a losing battle, all because the hot guy from upstairs won’t leave my thoughts.
The only silver lining to being in Grangewood Creek is the lack of unannounced visits from my mom. The phone calls demanding cash are still well and truly existent, but at least I don’t have to worry about coming home to the smell of cigarettes and alcohol, or a man’s bare ass up in the air on my brand new sheets.
I park just outside the ice cream parlor, and head in to get myself a double scoop on a waffle cone, thankful that the sun is going down and there’s barely another person in sight.
I’d rather not have people around while I eat it. They probably won’t even look in my direction, but try telling that to my subconscious who is begging me to hide, and eat it in the car.
My mind races in the silence of this small town, the word why constantly floating around.
Why does he want to be friends with benefits with someone like me ?
Why did he tell everyone that I was his?
Why did he buy me flowers on the date of my actual birthday?
How did he even know it was my birthday?
Why does it bother me so much that he wants to publicly show me affection?
And most importantly, why does my frustration feel so forced?
Why does it excite me, and set all of my nerve endings on fire?
But I bet Cole would change his mind if he saw me like this.
I ignore the thought, pushing it completely out of my mind, and pat the sides of my mouth with a napkin.
Rising from the bench outside of the now-closed ice cream parlor, I pause when I hear someone call my name. Whipping my head around, I laugh in disbelief at the man who approaches with a wide spread grin across his face.
“Robbie?” I say with a smile. “I didn’t think you were still in town.” He bends to hug me and my arm wraps around his waist.
He’s fine as hell, don’t get me wrong, but there’s just something about him that screams friend without benefits, and he knows it, too.
That, and he slept with one someone I consider a sister.
“Harley and I just had to go over a few things, but I head out on Saturday morning.” He sits on the bench I’d just risen from, and I take a seat next to him.
We talk for a while about the set and how everything’s going, then I ask him if he’s going to the Wingrove games night tomorrow, to which he says ‘yes’, and the wheels turn in my head.
If the Wingrove’s want to meddle, let them meddle, but two can play at that game.
“Selfie?” I ask, opening the camera app on my phone, and he eyes me suspiciously, but agrees to it anyway. “I have a new friend who’s a fan. He’ll be very jealous that I’m here with you.” It’s not a total lie, but it’s not a hundred percent the truth, either. If my mom ever taught me anything, it’s to never let the truth get in the way of a good story, or in my case, a brilliant idea.
We snap the photo, my head resting on his shoulder, looking way too comfortable to be just friends, and I send the photo off to the number I still haven’t saved in my phone. The caption reading, ‘In case you didn’t know which Robbie Crossland I was talking about.’ I turn my phone on ‘do not disturb’, and shove it back into my bag.
“See you tomorrow night,” I tell him and he nods with a smile, walking over the road to his rental car parked directly across from mine.
Once I make it back home, I allow the notifications to flow through my phone, hyping myself up to bravely check filter through my alerts, only to be disappointed that there isn’t a single message from him.
I hate that it bothers me that the picture I’d sent didn’t get the reaction out of him that I’d hoped it would.
Well, any reaction at all.
So much for a distraction.
I guess my night will be spent with my trusty pink friend after all.