Exes and O's (The Influencer #2)

by Amy Lea

“You’re certainly not a wholesome type of charming.”

“I’m forever indebted. Seriously, though. I would lick your gym shoes if you asked me to.”

Trevor sighs. “You’re going to stake out the front of his workplace, aren’t you?” “Correction: we are.”

Unsurprisingly, Trevor had to be bribed with Five Guys milkshakes to accompany me to Daniel’s workplace during a snowstorm.

While Trevor makes (some) valid points, at least I will be able to say I exhausted every avenue before desperately sliding into Daniel’s LinkedIn DMs.

“This is my very last and most promising ex. The only one on that list who knows the real me. I would regret it forever if I didn’t pull out all the stops.”

“I’m just . . . worried you’ll be crushed if it doesn’t work out with him.”

In all the excitement of this ex-boyfriend goose chase, I haven’t fully considered the possibility of none of them working out.

how pathetic would it be if I, the biggest romance novel fan ever, failed to find book-worthy love in real life?”

I was at a real low point. I could barely get out of bed. I thought no one would ever want me. Even a year out . . . I still can’t help but think that sometimes.”

“If this is about going to the gala, I’ll go with you.”

Trevor has, somehow, transformed from miserable twerp to James Bond.

For some reason, the mere prospect of the splay of his palm spanning my thigh floods me with heat, like a wave of caffeine or straight-up sorcery, jolting me alive.

Did I really get that excited at the prospect of my womanizer roommate’s hand inches from my leg?

Am I that desperate for human affection?

“Him leaving had nothing to do with you.” His hard eyes search mine. “You either.” Without explaining, I know he’s referring to Seth.

His grief makes my heart ache.

I think I finally understand the glaring difference between us. The difference that renders us entirely unmatchable.

While Trevor and I are both wounded by abandonment—him more severely—we hand...

I’m about to curl into a ball or hide under my own coat like a coward when Trevor clasps a hand around the back of my neck.

He receives my silent cue and conceals me completely. With his face.

WHEN TREVOR’S SOFT, pillowy lips settle against mine, my soul exits my body.

Trevor Metcalfe is kissing me. He. Is. Kissing. Me.

With both hands, I pull his face closer to mine a little more aggressively than intended.

When his low groan vibrates into my mouth, my body descends into chaos.

His hand is still clasped around the back of my neck, his fingers moving in possessive circular strokes that do little to suppress the cavewoman inside me I didn’t know existed.

Just as I contemplate a side-aerial onto his lap, he rips his lips from mine.

When he leans in, I hold my breath. I half expect him to kiss me again, but all he does is shove me off the bench.

I should be pursuing him with the gusto I had all of an hour ago, but I’m too stunned to go on, thanks to Trevor Metcalfe.

“You kissed me.” My statement comes out harsher than I meant it to. “I did,” he says, as if he can’t believe it himself.

“Please don’t read into this,” he begs.

The kiss wasn’t real. No feelings. Or rainbows. Or butterflies.

“I’m not reading into it.” I might be.

I may be in the market for a soul mate, but even I’m not naive enough to think it would be you.”

“Excuse you. I’m a great kisser.” “I’ve had better,” I say, suddenly very focused on the lint from my cable-knit sticking to my jeans.

“Anyways. We can’t do that. Ever again.”

WE DON’T TALK about the Kiss.

Have I really had a lifetime of rusted Honda Civic–equivalent kisses? Because comparatively, Trevor’s kiss was like being behind the buttery leather wheel of Mel’s Tesla.

Is it humanly possible to kiss someone like that—the fervent, suppressed passion of our breath colliding, him claiming me entirely—with zero authentic emotion spurring it on?

In fact, no one really cares about my exes at all. And I’m left to wonder (in a Carrie Bradshaw voice), do I really care about them, either?

In fact, has this entire endeavor become so all-consuming because I truly want to find love with my exes, or am I merely basking in Trevor’s assistance?

“We just have to make sure we keep her away from the women,” Mom says casually, like it’s totally normal for a dog to be a misogynist.

“You know I like a man who can be easily controlled.”

I move my fried rice around my plate absentmindedly while they bicker about which ex is least likely to grow tired of me.

My mind trails to Trevor again and how he explicitly stated he never gets sick of my stories.

TARA: For the 39434th time, you simply cannot punctuate with a period. It’s a mark of death! You’re an emotional person’s nightmare texter

TREVOR: THE HORROR!!!! From now on I’ll make sure I end all my texts with exclamation marks okay?! Just for you!

TARA: I feel so special TREVOR: You should! I’m only doing this for you!

But don’t read into it. There’s nothing going on with us.” “Figured as much,” she says casually. I don’t know why her knowing tone irks me so much, but it does.

He kissed me. When we did surveillance at Daniel’s work. One minute, Daniel was coming out of the elevator, and the next, Trevor was kissing me. With tongue.”