She frowns. “Is that code for shitty and traumatizing?”
I huff out a short laugh. “Um, yeah. That. For sure. And because of that, I’m not ready to jump into something serious again right now. Not even with someone I like as much as I like you.”
Faith cocks her head, studying me for a moment before she says, “So…you just want to be friends with benefits? Or something like that?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not like that… Well, not really.” I shrug uncomfortably, cursing myself for heading down this road before I had my shit sorted. I ought to know better than to start a “defining the relationship” talk without advance preparation. “I honestly don’t know, Faith. I just like spending time with you. You’re funny and interesting and I feel like I can be myself when we’re together. I like making you laugh and working out with you and kissing you and…I kind of just want to relax and see where that goes.”
Her forehead furrows. “As long as it doesn’t go to a serious place.”
“Yeah. Sort of?” I brace myself to be told to go to hell and rot there.
But she surprises me by saying, “All right.”
“All right?” My brows lift.
She crosses her arms and nods. “Yeah. Totally. This was honestly moving too fast for me, anyway. I like the idea of taking a step back.”
“Oh. Well…good,” I say, wondering why her words sting a little.
This is exactly what I wanted. The best-case scenario.
Isn’t it?
“As long as we lay down some ground rules,” she continues. “First, no hand holding in public. That will give everyone in town the wrong idea and you know how they love to gossip. Second, no sleeping together.” Her cheeks flush a little pinker as she glances up at the building behind me. “Because like I said, I don’t do that casually.”
“I respect that,” I say.
And I do. I can’t say I’m thrilled about being barred from her bed. But she knows what she wants, and I respect that about her. A lot.
“And third, no hard feelings when it ends.” Her eyes meet mine again, an edge in those brown depths that makes me wish we’d never started this conversation. “I’m all for having fun together, but when it’s over—for whatever reason—there’s no drama. From either side.”
I nod. “All right.”
“Good, then let’s stop talking and start running,” she says, jogging toward the impound lot. “I only have thirty minutes before I have to be back upstairs. Want to do four warm up laps, four sprints, and then four somewhere in the middle?”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, falling in beside her.
It does sound perfect—both the course for the run, and the course she’s set for our future.
It’s exactly what I was hoping for, a fun, no-strings-attached relationship custom designed to make sure no one gets in too deep, and no one gets hurt.
So why do I feel like I struck out?
Big time.
Chapter Eight
Faith
I’m torn. Confused.
And worst of all…wishy washy.
By Thursday afternoon, I’ve almost cancelled my date with Mick ten times.
But every time I start to text him, I hesitate. And then hesitation turns to indecision and sooner or later I end up calling myself a wimp for even thinking about chickening out and shove the entire Mick situation to the back of my mind and eat another donut hole from the stash by the coffee station.
He’s just a guy!
And I don’t get stressed out about guys, especially guys who aren’t boyfriend material. It doesn’t matter that Mick’s touch makes my insides melt and I want to sleep with him more than I’ve ever wanted to sleep with anyone—I laid down the ground rules and we’re both going to abide by them. We’ll hang out, have fun until something or someone better comes along, and part ways without either of us needing to step out of our comfort zone.
It’s the perfect plan to keep loneliness at bay while remaining open to finding Mr. Long Term, should he happen to come along.
It’s going to be fine. Just fine.
Still, by the time seven o’clock Thursday night rolls around, I’m pacing the floor in front of my apartment door, wondering what the hell I’m getting myself into.
“It’s not a big deal,” I mutter to my cat, Captain Snugglepants. “I mean, I’m all about self-control. Just because a guy gets under my skin doesn’t mean I’m turning into Mama. And even if I were, I would check myself into rehab before I’d hand my life over to some loser. I have nothing to worry about. At all.”
Captain Snugglepants watches me from his perch atop the couch, a judgmental look in his green eyes that seems to accuse me of protesting too much.
“Whatever.” I wrinkle my nose in the cat’s direction. It isn’t a big deal. I’ll go out with Mick, enjoy myself the way I do with him, do a little harmless making out in his truck, and then head for home. Alone. The way I like it.
I wasn’t lying when I told him things were moving too fast for me.
I should be grateful he wants a casual relationship and is willing to be honest with me about it. Most guys would have tried to get in my pants first and made it clear they didn’t want to get emotionally involved after they’d rounded as many bases as I was up for.
But with most of the guys I’ve dated, that wouldn’t have been many.
I’ve never had any trouble pumping the brakes in the bedroom. Like, seriously, zero issues. I’d sort of assumed I just had more self-control than most women or wasn’t as into sex or something.
But ever since Mick kissed me under the mistletoe at the Fireman’s Ball, I’ve started to suspect I just haven’t been kissing the right kind of guy.
The kind who makes my body hunger for his touch, who inspires nightly dreams of his hands sliding over my skin and his mouth trailing hot kisses down my neck while his—
The ding-dong of the doorbell makes me jump, jarring me from my heated thoughts and sending Captain Snugglepants leaping from the back of the couch in a flurry of white fur.
“It’s going to be fine, fine, fine,” I chant softly. I take a deep breath, blow it out, and reach for the doorknob, determined not to let Mick see how off-kilter I am.
I open the door to reveal his stupidly handsome face.
Damn it, he’s even better looking than I remembered.
“Hey,” he says, grinning.
“Hey,” I say, taking in his black jeans and blue sweater with what I hope is a neutral expression.
He looks amazing—good enough to go back for seconds and dip the crust in gravy—but he probably already knows that. Knows that sweater makes his blue eyes pop and that the black curls falling messily over his forehead are sexy as hell.
“Wow.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “You look…”
“Ready for target practice?” I roll my shoulders back, glad I decided not to get dressed up.
Jeans, my black shit-kicker boots, and a long-sleeved black thermal are perfectly appropriate for a low-key dinner and some quality time with a gun.
And my outfit should make it clear I intend to keep things casual.