Blake pulls into my driveway, and as I reach for the door, his hand closes over my wrist. I turn to face him as his hand slides back into mine. Heat that has nothing to do with the summer spreads through my body, and my heart skips a beat inside my chest.
He looks nervous; his gaze is focused downward, and he's running his bottom lip through his teeth, chewing on it like he wants to say something, but can't.
So I release the door handle and wait, fascinated by the slight tinge in his cheeks. "Bad boys aren't supposed to be nervous," I blurt out.
Blake snorts, watching me with a twinkle in his eye. "You're obsessed with bad boys, aren't you?"
I shrug. "I've seen my fair share of them, but a true bad boy isn't an asshole. They're confident without arrogance and don't treat their partners like shit, but I haven't seen one of these guys in any recent books or movies."
Scratching his beard, Blake looks thoughtful before saying, "Hm...I guess you could say Greasers in the 60s were bad boys. They didn't quite fit societal norms, and they were fun to watch in Grease with my cousin."
I can't help but laugh. I haven't seen Grease since I was a kid, and I never liked that Sandy and Johnny both tried to change who they were to be together. Then again, the Outsiders also comes to mind. They were edgy, sometimes breaking the law, but they were good guys from the wrong part of town. Blake doesn't seem to fit that criteria at all.
"You ever break the law?" It's totally inappropriate and not my business, but it's too late to take it back now.
"What makes you say that?" he asks, scratching the back of his neck.
I smirk at his obvious tell. "Well, the guys in the Outsiders did. You have tattoos, you're confident, you pose with motorcycles... Guess that makes you a bad boy."
He brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses the inside of my wrist. My heart skips well past a hundred beats a minute as tingles zing through my arm and shivers rock my body. The way he does it is slow and sensual—if he doesn't stop, I'll orgasm right here in the front seat of his car. And if that isn't enough, he cups the back of my neck with his hand and pulls me forward, pressing his lips against mine.
My mouth parts in a gasp, inviting him to explore my lips with his tongue before biting my lower lip. I feel as though my body was set on fire as every part of me goes into overdrive. He tastes like beer and...what's the word I'm looking for...I can't think of anything except for how soft his lips are or how much I want to kiss him back, so I do.
Our noses touch and I tentatively deepen the kiss, meeting his tongue with mine. Before I know it, he's shifting his seat back and pulling me onto his lap while he plants his hands on my hips. It's so hot and erotic, and I know he's turned on because I can feel him hardening beneath me.
I'm so shy—I've never made a move on anyone, but he makes me feel desirable, and I'm emboldened enough to thread my fingers through his soft hair and pull. He groans, shifting beneath me as a warm hand slips beneath my shirt. Then his teeth are suddenly against my ear as he slowly trails his lips down my neck and ends on my collarbone.
We're not even having sex, and a strong orgasm is already building at the base of my spine, sending hot currents of electricity to my breasts. Every muscle is pulsing with anticipation.
"Blake," I gasp. "I'm... I'm... oh, my God, I'm going to come right now if you don't stop."
When he pulls away, he has an almost sheepish expression, but his eyes are telling a different story. They're dazed and full of the same fire threatening to melt me into a puddle. His breathing is shallow, and his cheeks are red—he looks every bit as shocked as I feel. He also looks at me like a predator ready to devour me at any moment. "I... Would that be so bad if you did?"
Yes. No. I don't know.
On one hand, I really want to bring him upstairs and finish. On the other, I don't think this is a good idea. I'm not into one-night stands, and the last thing I need is for him to destroy my self-esteem the moment he's had his fun. I can't—I won't be another notch on his bedpost.
I peck him on the lips before climbing off his lap and grabbing my purse. Then I offer him a small smile. "I think it's best if we stop while we're ahead. Thank you for lunch."
"When will I see you again?"
His eyes are so hopeful, and I don't have it in me to say we're in completely different solar systems. Instead, I shrug. "We'll play it by ear. I had a good time."
That last part is genuine, but the muscles twitch in his cheeks like I've just crushed him with the classic, "it's not you, it's me," line. I don't know what to say though, and guilt washes through me for stealing his joy. I only wish I understood why he chose me. I'm the complete opposite of beautiful—I'm awkward and twiggy with more freckles than Raggedy Ann.
I don't say any of this out loud though. With a forced smile, I nod once and open the door. There's no sense in prolonging this, and I'd rather think back on this fondly before anyone gets hurt. "Take care, Blake."
Not giving him a chance to stop me, I head straight into the house, turning only before I close the storm gate. Blake is staring straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel as if his life depends on it. I wave, but he sighs and pulls out of the driveway without acknowledging me. My heart sinks even though I know I did the right thing. But if I did, why are my eyes watering and my chest aching as if he was the one to hurt me?
What's done is done. All I can do is move on as I close the door and go upstairs, not thinking about him or the kiss still lingering on my lips.
A week passes with no word from Blake. It shouldn't bother me; I made the decision to end things before they started, and he's taking the hint to respect my choice. The problem is that his broken expression haunts me every time I lie down to sleep, not understanding why I rejected him.
I don't even know him, but it hurts. There's this need burning inside me to apologize, even though he's probably moved on to someone else by now. For all I know, he isn't even that bothered over it.
The text cursor blinks back at me from my word document, and I sigh. I've been thinking about him again instead of writing, but it's impossible to get anything on the page. My phone sits beside me on the desk, urging me to pick it up.
Picking it up, I scroll through my contacts with my fingers hovering over his name. What do I say, "I'm sorry I was a bitch? I'm sorry that I have more insecurities than you do commitment issues?" I need to say something though before too much time passes. A week is already long enough to make things awkward.
'Hey. I'm sorry if I upset you. That was never my intention, I'm just horribly shy. Like...I dunno, I don't understand what you see in me?' I press the backspace key, erasing the last sentence. That makes me sound too pathetic. I try again with, 'I'd like to see you again if you're still interested.' Then I delete my words again, having gone from pathetic to desparate. The first two sentences will have to do; either he'll forgive me or he won't.
After pressing send, I wait a few minutes, but he doesn't respond. My computer clock indicates that it's only three in the afternoon, so he's probably at work. It is Wednesday, and I can't imagine him being the type to drop everything just to check his messages.
Val is at work, or I'd immediately call to tell her I screwed up the one chance I had with a guy. I can't talk to Dad, because he'd have a bazillion awkward questions I really don't want to answer. The only companion I have is my cat, and she doesn't speak.
The kitten has already doubled in size, and she's lying stretched out on the bed. When I look at her, she tilts her head up, blinking slowly. Then she yawns before resting her head against her paws. Plopping down beside her, I scoop her onto my stomach, scratching behind her ears. Her chest rumbles against mine, soothing my hurt feelings.
"So what do you think, Nova? Am I stupid for not jumping at the opportunity for a man to get down my pants?"
She purrs even louder.
The answer is no. I respect myself, no matter what everyone told me in school—that I should be grateful for any man to pay attention to me. I remember the boys teasing me, calling me Butterface. No one ever asked me to Prom or Homecoming dances, and no matter how much I want to believe Blake's interest is sincere, all I can see are the people in grade school laughing at me.
A tear slips down my face. "Why do people suck?" I whisper.
I should tell him the truth, but it doesn't matter. I blew my chance the moment I walked away. Besides, he implied he didn't like emotions. The most we would get out of each other is a couple of dates before he decides he's in too deep.
And no matter how many times I repeat this to myself, his clenched jaw, tight grip on the wheel, and rigid shoulders niggle at the back of my mind.
What would Val do? If she were here, she wouldn't let me mope over it. She'd snatch my phone and message him, pretending to be me as I watched in horror. Then I'd have no choice but to text back. Not only that, but I'm certain she'd make the first move instead of waiting around.
Maybe it's time for me to take a page out of her book.
Trembling and heart racing, I go to retrieve me phone. He still hasn't responded to my text, but I swallow my fear and send him a follow-up text before I can talk myself out of it.
'Come on a date with me.'
I can't believe how bold I am, but it's too late as blood rushes through my ears and my head swims. He's going to think I'm insane. Scratch that, I know I've lost it. Even worse, if he doesn't respond, I'll forever wonder if I scared him away. I'll hyperventilate until I throw up, and then I'll text Val until the wee hours of the night to ask her why I couldn't be normal like everyone else. I—
My phone interrupts my panicked thoughts with an incoming text. I'm afraid to see his response, reminded of every rejection letter I've received from agents since the last Pitmad. I was scared of those too.
"Okay," I breath, "just rip off the band-aid and get it over with. It's not the end of the world."
With my eyes closed, I swipe the screen, count to five, and open one eye. Then I open the other to make sure I'm reading this correctly.
'You gonna turn into a pumpkin at midnight or do you plan on sticking around this time?'
Ouch. Not that I don't deserve that, but it's also not a no...
'Can we do something...small?'
I can almost visualize him smirking as the next text comes in. 'Can't say I've ever done anything SMALL. 🤣'
'Naughty boy.'
'I can be bad too. ;)'
My cheeks must be flaming red right now. I never should have brought up the bad boys. 'Or you could be nice and we could do something quiet together.'
His head must be exploding on the other end, because I know his mind is in the gutter. 'I'm gonna behave and say okay. Come to my place on Friday. I'll make dinner for you.'
I'm dying to know what his idea of misbehaving is, but I guess I'll find out this weekend. With a grin, I text, 'Okay.'