Exes and O's (The Influencer #2)

by Amy Lea

This gets his attention. “I beg to differ.” His voice comes out low and strained, which does something to my insides.

Am I turned on right now? I readjust myself in my seat, away from the blast of the jet. It’s the jets. It must be the jets.

A slight smile plays across his lips, but he doesn’t respond.

“Did you know my social media followers are obsessed with you?”

“You haven’t followed me yet?” I sigh, disappointed.

My fingers tingle at the prospect of exclusive access to his daily life, however insignificant.

“I never told you my favorite color.” “It’s dark green. You have multiple dark-green T-shirts.”

“When it’s a bad day, you stomp around a little and raid my snack stash before showering. When it’s a good day, you still raid my snacks, but when you shower, you hum a tune that sounds suspiciously like ‘I Knew You Were Trouble’ by Taylor Swift.”

I can’t confirm, but I think Trevor’s eyes drifted to my chest for a fraction of a second.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m warm and dry, star-fishing with a book in my usual spot on the living room floor.

I expect him to walk over me and head for the television, or simply judge me from above, but surprisingly, he stretches out on the floor next to me. “This is weirdly comfortable,” he admits, lining his shoulders up with mine.

“I have some of my most genius thoughts down here.” “I’m sure you do,” he says, reading over my shoulder.

“What’s this book about? Looks like a cowboy romance.” “You’d be correct.” “Second-chance?”

Sometimes I feel like they’re a bit dismissive of me. When I told them about the ex thing, they laughed it off like it was a joke.”

One glance at his tiny, stubborn smile and my stomach flutters. My body tenses with new awareness of the press of his shoulder against mine.

My thoughts are spinning, aching to unpack my body’s reaction to his touch, but my mind is pulled elsewhere—to his eyes.

Our shared gaze holds for a beat longer than casual before his eyes fall to my mouth. His throat bobs with a slow, almost hesitant swallow, and his jaw goes soft.

Based on my extensive catalog of romance knowledge from books and film, these are signs of an impending kiss.

Trevor Metcalfe wants t...

Electricity courses between us in wavy cartoon lines.

I ache for him to put me out of my misery, close that millimeter of desperate air, and brush his soft lips against mine.

I’ve never sweat so much in my life. This can’t be normal, or healthy.

Being turned down by two separate men in the span of two hours is a first—with

Avoiding Trevor Metcalfe, my off-limits roommate whose bedroom is a mere five feet from mine, is not so simple.

Sure, our shoulders and noses touched for a hot second. We may have even flirted a little. He may have gazed longingly at my lips. But flirting is Trevor’s default mode.

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” Mel asks, retying her ponytail. She quickly adds, “Not that you look pregnant or anything. But I’ve been getting a maternal vibe from you. And you’ve been pinning house décor ideas on Pinterest.”

I’d be off men too if my last boyfriend rocked an exclusive wardrobe of turtlenecks.

The last few guys she brought home, she tasked with labor around her apartment (like fixing her leaky faucet) before sex.

Men are burdens to be abandoned at the first sign of trouble.

“Okay, fun story, I tried to kiss Trevor last night.”

“Wait, Trevor went on the date with you and Wanderlust Brandon?” Mel asks.

He’s a great guy, don’t get me wrong. But he wouldn’t know a relationship from his ass,” Crystal remarks, holier than thou.

“But why would Trevor give up his night to supervise your date? Do you think he likes you?”

“I think you should sleep with him. Just once. Get it out of your system.”

I shudder at the thought of a one-night stand. With my roommate. Of all people.

“God, no. Do you even read the romance books I loan you? Every time romance characters have sex to get it out of their system...

And besides, Trevor doesn’t like ...

“A die-hard, emotional romantic and a guy who only believes in one kind of happy ending? That’s a recipe for disaster if I ever saw one.”

“Because I know how you get. You get obsessed. Dickmatized, as the great Ali Wong would say.

I’ve been this way my entire life, misinterpreting kindness for affection, ready to launch into fantasy mode at any given moment

I even made a fresh batch of cupcakes from scratch, proudly displayed on the kitchen island for the taking. It’s a flimsy apology for trying to assault him with my lips, but it’s the best I could come up with on short notice.

“Okay, good. I gotta go now, but—” Silence. “Yup. Love you, Angie.”

Kissing and cuddling in public is weird. No one wants to see that.”

“Anyway, when he finally broke things off, he told me I was too much for him. Too needy.

It’s way easier to settle for a paperback prince than it is to put yourself out there. But I’m a glutton for punishment, I think.”

He’s also started reading on the couch with me during the evenings, borrowing the thrillers I haven’t had the heart to read because I don’t take plot twists well.

Ever since I accused him of being secretive, he texts me photos of everything he eats when we’re not together.

TREVOR: Tara, will you accept this link? The text is followed by a link to the casting call for the new Bachelor season.

he’s consistently one of my first story viewers. Mel thinks it means he’s still hung up on me, but I know Seth. It’s purely a control thing.

“Excuse me for being a little upset that you canceled our wedding.”