Bittersweet (Ocean View #3)

by Morgan Elizabeth

But because I’m me, instead of, say, thanking Ben for saving my ass or explaining what happened or even just going back to my place, my head turns to the man and says the first thing that comes to my mind. “I’m not . . . messing around with you,” I say. Then I decide to clarify because I am a glutton for punishment. “Tonight.” His thick dark brows come together as he turns his head to me. “What?” “I’m not doing stuff with you. You know . . . sexual stuff.” God, why am I doing this? His brows furrow deeper in confusion and maybe even frustration. “No shit,” he says. “You’ve been through enough. Plus, last time was a mistake.” My stomach churns with what I’ve been overthinking for two weeks. He regrets what happened. And while I left in a flurry, while I slammed the door in his face and never looked back and avoided him since, something about every moment we’re alone together has felt so fucking right for me. Including that night in the hallway. That night in his bed. I hate this man. And I want this man. And somehow, all of those emotions—frustration and anguish and need and desire—feel so at peace with each other when directed at him. Like a part of me knows at the end, it will all settle, that the pieces will fall into place when I least expect it. He sees the panic in my face, the panic that he doesn’t want this. He sees it. I know he does.