Exes and O's (The Influencer #2)

by Amy Lea

When his rough fingertips graze my back, a hum of electricity comes alive, circuiting to all my nerve endings from my fingertips to my toes.

The odd, gentle graze of his knuckles brushing against my back is enough to send any straight woman into a bout of unconsciousness.

My breath hitches the moment the small of my back presses flush against something very unexpected. And hard. My mind splits into fragments. Trevor Metcalfe is insanely turned on.

“Can you blame me? You’re half-naked and pressed against me,” he quips, evidently offended and entirely broken up about it.

He perks up with renewed curiosity. “A date? With who?” “Daniel.”

“You think I’m getting my hopes up, don’t you? Being too intense about it?” I venture. “I don’t think that at all.”

He’s literally inches away from my face, and if I went on my tiptoes, I could probably close that gap.

I think he might even want to, until he says, “You’re gonna make some guy really happy one day. And I hope for your sake that it’s Daniel.”

Regardless of whether or not he was turned on by me in an enclosed space, he sure...

Ten bucks says her date won’t show. Let’s wager a guess when the waterworks start.

TREVOR: How’s dinner going? I’m half-tempted to ignore his text, simply to avoid the pity.

“Hey, I’m so sorry, babe. I got held up in a meeting,” a booming voice sounds over his shoulder. It’s not Daniel. It’s Trevor.

A good suit can elevate any man at least two notches.

On rare occasions, they may be spotted in the wild in casual wear, and it’s jarring, like seeing your first-grade teacher next to you in the condom and lube aisle of the local pharmacy.

Maybe I’ve been wrong about Trevor’s romantic lead potential all along, because that was some real hero shit.

“What are you having, sweetheart?” For the second time tonight, a term of endearment rolls off his tongue so naturally, I’d assume we really were a real-life married couple with plans for a bright future with two kids, a yellow Lab, and maybe a beta fish I’ll inevitably forget to feed.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you? Pasta is the worst date food.” I hold his stare. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you? I don’t play by bullshit rules.”

“That’s my girl. You look great tonight, by the way. That dress is just

A flame lights up my insides, filling me with a liquid warmth so comforting, I don’t know what to do with my body.

I don’t realize I’m smiling until the moisture threatens to pool over my lash line. This is the single most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.

“Hey, you okay?” Trevor asks, reading my expression. He even nudges the bread basket toward me. Why m...

“Like having some hot sex with an Insta model?” He smirks. “I’m eating an expensive meal with an Insta model. That’s gotta count for something.”

Now I feel like a dick for not wiping my crumbs off the counters. Although my crumbs are nothing compared to naked women on the kitchen island,” I tease.

“Was it weird to have a stranger living with you after rooming with Scott for so long?” “No, actually. That first time we talked—” “When you gave me Cheetos in the bathroom?” “Yeah. I felt like I already knew you. It was like we’d been friends for years.”

Womp, womp. There’s that word again. Friends. I deflate a little.

“You’re not gonna reschedule, are you?” “I mean, I can’t fault him for working—”

“Forget about him,” he urges. “Your soul mate isn’t gonna stand you up.”

I note his stiff-backed posture against the chair, his hand in a fist on the tabletop, the clench of his jaw, and our weird moment in the changing room, I’m certain there’s something behind this.

“Tara. Don’t.” His eyes plead with me, like he knows what I’m about to ask.

“Is there something . . .” I gesture to the space between us. “Going on here?”

“Please,” I beg, lowering my quivering voice. “You’ve been acting weird lately and I’m confused. I know I’m probably just reading into things . . . but I just need a yes or no. And I swear I’ll never ask again.”

On the plus side, he hasn’t said no. That has to count for something.

“Don’t cry, please,” he whispers as his lips lightly brush my cheek like the harshest tease, as if kissing away my tears.

A rush flows down my back when I feel his body stiffen against me, as if he’s just realized that the carefully constructed fortress around his heart has been breached.

“Am I actually crazy? Am I imagining all of this?” I ask again. “Tara . . . No.”

“Why are you doing this to me? Why can’t you just tell...

I can’t be another asshole who breaks your heart. I can’t do that to you, of all people. You deserve everything. Every. Thing.”

“I refuse to tell you because—” “Because you’re the emotionally constipated playboy who can’t overcome his baggage. The guy who screws the heroine over before she meets the real hero.”

This man is single-handedly the most frustrating person I have ever met.

“You want the truth?” he asks, his voice strained. “That’s all I want,” I whisper, my hands on either side of my cheeks to cover the redness.

“You were right. I—have feelings for you.” The declaration knocks the wind out of my chest. I tamp down the urge to ask a million questions, letting him continue. “Big feelings. To the point where I don’t even know what to do with myself half the time. I’ve tried to get you out of my head for months, but your stubborn ass just won’t leave.”

“Why haven’t you?” “Because I’m scared that I can’t give you what you need.”

“You want a full-on fairy tale. The perfect guy from your books. Marriage. Kids. Everything. And you deserve it all. But what if I’m not capable of giving that to you?”

“I don’t need another man who makes elaborate promises he can’t commit to, Trevor. I need someone who’s going to be open and honest with me. I want someone who is willing to try.”

“If there’s anyone in this world I want to try for, it’s you,” he whispers.

My heart swells. We’ve been in a relationship all of a minute and already Trevor knows me better than any guy I’ve ever been with.

We’ll keep it G-rated.” I press my hand over my chest in a vow.

“Maybe not G.” “No? Would you prefer PG? Just light pecks and hand-holding?” I tease. “At least PG-13, smart-ass. Get over here.”

His tongue skirts my bottom lip and slides against mine effortlessly, like two pieces of the same puzzle.

When I gently scrape my nails against his skin, he groans into my mouth, his enthusiasm for the situation evident against my stomach.