Chapter 25
Present Day
If I thought that West’s truck smelled like him, it has nothing on his bed. My head is on his pillow, and I might as well be drowning in West Emerson pheromones.
It’s torture.
A message to anyone looking for cruel and unusual forms of punishment: Drop your subject into the bed of their smoking-hot ex who is also a professional rival and sometimes asshole.
For maximum agony, do it after he’s rescued them in the middle of the night.
Bonus points if he’s been holding on to an artifact from their past.
Waffle House is looking pretty good right about now.
I punch West’s pillow, annoyed that it’s the perfect amount of squashy. His sheets feel clean, his blankets soft, his bed comfortable. This is a nightmare.
I’m overtired, overstimulated, and can’t stop tossing and turning, my mind switching between the hunger in West’s eyes when we stood on the threshold to this room and the email that I saw on his phone from the one person who he knows would hurt me the most. Either West is playing games with me, or I tragically misunderstood the look on his face earlier.
His expression could have been exhaustion or frustration or annoyance.
Or maybe my own hormones were clouding my judgment, making me see phantoms where none exist.
I cross the room and crack the door open, hoping to hear the sound of West’s deep, even breathing in the room directly across the hall.
Instead, his door is also propped open, and I hear him fidgeting on the air mattress.
Startled, I sprint back to bed, mortified by the idea that he can likewise hear my erratic breathing and comically loud heartbeat.
He’s going to think I’m getting hot and bothered in his sheets, and he’ll be half-right.
I’m bothered, but I won’t let myself get hot for him.
Not when it’s less than twenty-four hours after finding out he set me up. Again.
I unlock my phone and mindlessly open the same dating app from earlier. I’m mindlessly swiping left after left after left when I stop myself just in time. I sit upright, my heart pounding.
West, 32
I zoom in on West’s profile picture and slap my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing at how bad it is.
West in real life is melt-my-clothes-off hot, but it’s impossible to tell that from this faraway, slightly out-of-focus picture of him hiking.
He’s squinting into the sun, half his face covered in shadows from his hat.
Whoever told him this picture was a good choice is praying on his downfall. I’ll send a gift basket.
My thumb hovers over the screen, indecision pulling me in both directions. In the end, curiosity about the rest of his profile threatens to eat me alive. I swipe right.
We match.
Across the hall, West curses just loud enough to reach my ears.
I’m drenched in endorphins as a chat bubble appears on my screen.
As always, any clever thought I’ve ever had evaporates.
There’s nowhere that I’m less charming, less funny, less knowing-how-to-put-words-together than a first message.
There’s also nowhere I’m more judgmental; I half hope that West sends me a generic How’s your day been?
or an even worse Hi, because it will be my solemn and sworn duty to unmatch him.
I lick my lips, waiting.
He’s taking too long, and I get impatient. My fingers fly over the keys. Before I can hit send, a message appears.
U up?
I laugh loud enough that he must hear it.
I respond with my prewritten message.
Congratulations on your first match!
How’d you know?
Your profile picture.
Ouch.
Move your third picture to the top spot.
The one in the sweater?
In the third picture, he’s alone at a table with a stack of papers in front of him. He looks like a sexy, disheveled English teacher. Hair in his eyes, red ink on his hands. I’m blindingly jealous of whoever took it.
I don’t want to stroke his ego too much, so I keep my reply simple.
Yes.
Isn’t it “giving nerd”?
Who taught you that?
The Youths.
I mean this as disrespectfully as possible: you can’t pull it off. Is this really your first match?
My bio says I’m 6’3. Do you think this is my first match?
Damn. He’s right. I know girls who would swipe right on the grim reaper if he were tall with a jawline.
Life for tall men must be so easy.
You forgot sexy.
Says who?
You like me in a sweater. I read between the lines.
Don’t let it go to your head.
I’m afraid it’s way too late for that. Gabbi told me the first picture was bad, by the way.
She’s not wrong.
It worked on you, didn’t it?
My stomach flutters in a way it never does in these app conversations. I’m enjoying this way too much.
It was the sexy saguaro that did it. I always loved Sabino Canyon.
His reply takes longer to arrive than his other messages.
All it takes to turn you on is desert landscaping and pillowcases? You’ve set the bar in hell.
I bite my lip and switch to a more relaxed position, settling in. I pull West’s comforter up to my chin as I type.
New York beat the hope and romanticism out of me.
I don’t believe you.
I’m serious. I’m jaded and cynical now.
Hence the swooning over my headboard.
I hear the words in his dry voice and flip to my other side as warmth spreads through my body. This is headed in a dangerous direction.
My swooning made you look like you were going to be sick.
That’s not what it was.
Do tell.
I’m baiting him, and awaiting his response is pure, everlasting agony.
I’ve been waiting 10 years to get you in my bed, Darling. No, I don’t want to hear you talk about other guys.
I blink open-mouthed at my phone. What am I supposed to say to that?
I put the screen to sleep and drop it on my chest, trying to make sense of this information. I lie in darkness, save for the faint glow of his phone slipping through the crack in my door, until mine chimes with a new message.
Too much?
Yes.
No.
When I saw West at Amber’s wedding, he made it crystal clear that he’d moved on. And later, it became painfully obvious that he wanted nothing to do with me. But now he wants to pretend that he’s been pining for me or some bullshit?
I just don’t believe you.
Even after last night?
Was it the bickering in the bar that was supposed to convince me or the fury in his eyes when I read his book onstage? Clearly, he means the kiss, but I’m not a lovesick undergrad anymore. One nostalgia-and-hormone-fueled moment is not enough to rewrite our history.
Especially after last night.
Across the hall, West’s phone blinks off.