“Oliver,” I say, turning desperate. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not posting anything on Twitter. I was just . . .”
I was just covering up how I feel for you.
He waves a hand. “Whatever. It’s fine. I love being judged for completely unimportant shit.”
He doesn’t add like how I look, because that would be cocky.
And right now, he’s not cocky.
But he has been judged—unfairly—and that’s partly my fault.
I don’t let go of his arm, squeezing tightly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to judge you. I think you’re amazing. As a person, as a friend, as a . . .” I flap my hand in the direction of the bedroom.
A small smile plays on his lips. “Thanks.”
“And I would never say something online about . . .” I don’t finish that sentence either—how good you are in bed. That seems trivial, and this moment feels bigger, more important.
So I do the thing I ought to do—apologize again. “I’m sorry for judging you on your looks. You’re gorgeous, and I maybe assumed something that was stupid to assume.”
He laughs, and it sounds self-deprecating. “I sound like a total arse now. It’s all good. We’re good, I swear. I didn’t mean to get cranky.” He takes a beat. “But would you tell Stella your grade for me?”
The question comes out almost sheepish, like he’s embarrassed to ask.
I want to tell him the truth. That I would tell Stella as my friend. That I would tell her because she’s the only person to see through this facade of mine. Because she knows how I feel for Oliver.
Oh, how I want to find her, flop onto a couch, clutch my heart, and say it was amazing because it was him.
But I can’t, and I won’t.
“No,” I say. “It’s private.”
He shakes his head, like he’s clearing it. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said any of that about judgments and whatnot. I didn’t mean anything bad by it.”
I let go of his arm. “I didn’t mean to make it seem like it was only about that, Oliver. I didn’t sleep with you to test her theory.”
“You didn’t?” For a second, it sounds like he’s holding something precious in his hands, like a hummingbird, like hope.
I square my shoulders. “No. It wasn’t about a law.”
“No. It wasn’t about that for me either,” he says, his voice stretched thin.
In it I can hear fear—fear of loss—like I heard the other day. I go with an answer that’s true but won’t hurt my heart—or his.
I meet his eyes, willing myself to stay strong. “I think we just got caught up.”
“Yes!” His eyes blaze. Well, then. “All caught up.”
“It was a moment. And we just gave in.”
“Yes, precisely. Just a moment,” he says, practically punching the air in agreement.
Admittedly, my silly heart wishes he weren’t agreeing so easily. But my head knows this is for the best.
“We’re not going to do it again, obviously,” I add.
“Of course not. We know better.”
I swallow past the stone in my throat. “We do.”
“Yeah, we sure do.” Then he picks up the cup, takes another deep drink, and peers at the clock. “I should get out of here. I have lots to do.” He scratches his head and repeats, “Yeah, lots to do.”
I don’t answer. I just savor the view one last time.
I’ll see him like this again, surely. At the pool, he’ll be wearing less.
But it’s not so much what he’s wearing or not wearing.
It’s why. He’s still in a half-dressed state from last night, from us, together. It’s not just bed head—it’s bed head from sleeping next to me. It’s shirtlessness from me undressing him last night.
It’s a sleepy, sex-rumpled, morning-after look, and I put it there.
I want to put it there again.
But I can’t.
So it’s better if I just let him leave.
“Yeah, I have so much to do too. The gym and planning. Maybe I’ll even add a pole-dancing class and all sorts of fun stuff.” The words tumble out to fill the awkward silence. “Plus, we have dinner tonight with your client, and maybe we should take pics for one of those The Dating Pool dates before we go? I’ll pick one and text you where to meet.”
