chapter 10
Remi
I’M STRETCHING IN THE LIVING room, sprawled out on my yoga mat with a true crime documentary on the TV, when my phone pings with a text. My stomach squeezes, heart leaping, and I rebuke myself for it.
It could be anyone—Riley, Mom, one of the girls from work.
Or maybe it’s him.
My gaze flicks to my cell where it’s lying face down on the couch, and for twenty seconds, I resist the urge to snap it up. Then, suddenly, it’s in my hand.
And it is him.
I’m better with drumsticks than pickup lines. So, what are you doing today besides making fun of me?
My lips betray me, immediately pulling into a smile, the brutal murder on my TV screen completely forgotten as I flop onto my stomach on my yoga mat and stare down at the text.
Our texts have been a few hours apart today, but now that I’m home, lounging in my cotton shorts and oversize tee, I realize I want to text him back quickly, just to see if he will as well.
So I type my message out and send it without making myself wait.
Gym, groceries, laundry. I’m actually boring when you get to know me.
After sending the text, I toss my phone onto the couch and push back into my downward-facing dog.
He doesn’t respond nearly as fast as I’d hoped, and when the cell finally pings, I’ve already finished my stretching and am now sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching the documentary.
I grab the phone so fast that I actually embarrass myself.
I like boring. And groceries. I’m terrible at groceries. x
Rolling onto my back, I respond quickly.
How do you stay alive if you’re terrible at groceries?
The next text that comes through makes my heart catch—because it’s accompanied by a picture.
It’s not Sebastian, but somehow, it makes me feel closer to him, like he’s inviting me into his world. It’s a picture of an open pizza box, half of the pizza already gone, with a hand holding up a greasy slice.
Like this. z
The picture makes my stomach growl. That bowl of cereal earlier didn’t last me long, which reminds me that I need to meal prep for the week. Making food when I get home from the club never happens, so I prep all my meals on Mondays and Tuesdays so I have something simple to eat on work nights.
Pushing to my feet, I pad into the kitchen while texting back.
Looks good.
My phone pings before I can even open my refrigerator.
I’d share if you were here.
The message makes me pause, and I go still, standing frozen in the kitchen. Over my shoulder, a detective is saying something on TV, but I ignore it.
I . . . kind of wish I were there. In LA. Eating pizza. With him.
But I know that’s not real life. This is just a stupid little flirty thing, and it’ll be over in a week or so.
That’s how it always goes. Guys come into my life for a while, and then it ultimately doesn’t work, because I can’t—or won’t—give them what they want.
And this won’t work either; I need to keep reminding myself of that—especially every time my heart squeezes like it’s doing now, as my thumbs move rapidly across the screen.
If you were here, I’d make you suffer through salad. It’s good for you.
Sebastian texts back a moment later.
I’d eat raw lettuce if it meant I got to have dinner with you.
My heart squeezes again.
Who the hell is this guy? And how is he wriggling under my defenses so easily? I’m not usually like this.
Staring at his message, I lift a thumb to my lips, as if to chew on it, then remember I have my nails done and can’t go chewing them off; half-chewed nails do not look good wrapped around a pole. My nail tech would be pissed at me.
Prove it.
My heart thumps hard after I send the message. Thirty seconds pass, then a minute. Finally, those three little dots appear. And his next message has me catching my breath.
Okay. When can I see you again?