“It’s the bad-boy dick magic,” Alana says in her flat intonation, devoid of humor. “Makes us crazy. It isn’t our fault the screwed-up ones are the best in bed.”
I mean, she has a point. And when it comes to Evan Hartley, it’s the most random stuff that gets me all messed up. The little things that trigger memories and invite involuntary responses. My body has been programmed to certain stimuli. It’s instinct. Second nature. He licks his lips and I start imagining his face between my legs. Today, it was the way his hair smelled.
And it certainly didn’t help that he taunted me about pool sex and then asked me to meet him at our spot later.
I only came up with the date excuse because I was so close to accepting his invitation. Because what would be the harm in a little consensual sex between friends, right? No harm at all … until a little sex leads to a lot of sex, and then we’re spending every waking minute together, starting trouble and picking fights because every bit of adventure and conflict wrings a few more drops of adrenaline out of each other.
“I can’t help myself around him. He’s an addiction. I try to stay aloof, but then he smiles and flirts and coaxes me into flirting back,” I find myself confessing. “But if I don’t break the habit, I’ll never get a fresh start.”
“So we break the cycle,” Alana decides. “We just have to find someone who is everything that Evan isn’t. Shock the system, so to speak.”
“Well, that pretty much eliminates everyone we know.” Scratching off the list of names that are either his friends or people I can’t stand, there are hardly any people left in this town who aren’t related to me. Trolling college bars for a random Garnet dweeb isn’t my idea of a good time either.
“What about that guy from the other night?” Steph asks. “The one who approached you and Heidi.”
“Who, Harrison?” She can’t be serious.
“No, that’s good.” Alana sits up. Her face lights as the scheme assembles behind her eyes. She’s the queen of schemes, this one. “That’s really good.”
Steph nods. “The way Heidi told it, it sounded like the guy had a crush on you.”
“But he’s …” It even tastes bad on my tongue. “A cop. And he wears khakis. Tourists wear khakis.”
“Exactly,” Alana says, nodding her head as she sees all the pieces come together. She lands her determined gaze on me. “The Anti-Evan. He’s perfect.”
“It’s one date,” Steph reminds me. “Gets Evan off your back, and there are worse ways to spend a night than getting a free meal out of a guy who has zero chance of trying to get laid.”
There is that. And she’s right; Harrison was plenty nice. As far as dates go, this one comes with bare minimum expectations and is super low risk. The worst part, I guess, will be running out of things to talk about and realizing right away that we have absolutely nothing in common. But we’ll just part awkwardly at the end of the night and never have to see each other again. Simple. And if Evan shows up, he takes one look at Harrison, decides to feel sorry for me, and walks away laughing. I can handle that if it keeps Evan at bay.
“Alright,” I agree. “Operation Boy Scout is a go.”
Since I don’t know anyone who would have a cop’s number in their phone, and there is no chance that I call a police station just to, like, chat, it takes some creative social media sleuthing to slide into Harrison’s DMs. His Instagram is adorably if not pathetically bland. But I remind myself, this makes him a completely harmless suitor and reinforces the message that I am reforming. No more bad boys.
Me: It was nice seeing you the other night.
Me: Sorry we got interrupted. Dinner tonight?
It’s a bold opening, but I’m a woman on a mission. And a deadline. Thankfully, Harrison responds within a few minutes.
Harrison: This is a surprise. Yeah, that’d be great.
Harrison: Should I pick you up around 7?
Me: Sure. But leave the cruiser at home.
Harrison: Copy. See you then.
There. That wasn’t so hard.
What I’ve come to realize over the last year of my makeover is that change is a choice we make every day, a thousand times a day. We choose to do this one thing better. Then the next. And the next. And the one after that. So maybe duping a nice guy into a fake date in order to let my ex down gently isn’t exactly putting me up for sainthood—but baby steps. The point is, the old me wouldn’t have been caught dead in the same room as Harrison. And who knows, maybe we walk away from this as friends.
CHAPTER 10
EVAN
She does this shit on purpose. She likes to know she still has the power to mess with my head, dangling the possibilities in front of my face just to yank the carrot away at the last moment. What I’m more concerned about is the guy. This fucking guy who thought it’d be a good idea to run up on Genevieve right under my nose. Dude better have his affairs in order.
Needless to say, I’m buzzing when I get back to my house after work. But I don’t make it three steps through the door before Cooper pounces on me.
“Hey,” he calls from the living room, where he and Mac are sitting on the couch watching TV, “did you get in touch with Steve about the pipe fittings?”
“What?” I kick off my shoes and throw my keys at the side table with too much force. “No, I was out at Gen’s house with Levi.”
“And after that you were supposed to stop by the office to call Steve about the order for the hotel. We need those fittings tomorrow so we can replace the plumbing on the second floor.”
“So you do it.” I stalk into the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge. Daisy rushes up to wag her tail at my feet, more hyper than usual.
“I think she wants to go out,” Mac says. “Mind taking her for a walk?”
“You stuck to the couch or something?”
“Whoa.” Cooper jumps to his feet, apparently still capable of using his legs. “What’s with the attitude?”
“I just walked in the damn door and you two can’t wait ten seconds before jumping down my throat.” I flick the bottle cap into the trash and snap my fingers at Daisy, which sends her whimpering back to Mac. “Meanwhile, you both have done what today, exactly? Instead of bitching about stuff not getting done, why not get off your asses and do it yourself?”
Having exactly no interest in this conversation, I head outside to the garage.
What gets me is Gen doesn’t date. The thought of her putting on a pretty dress and doing her makeup to sit nicely at dinner is laughable. She’d sooner gnaw off her own arm than make small talk over appetizers. So what is this, some elaborate attempt to convince me she’s changed? Bullshit. Gen’s the type of girl who steals a motorcycle from outside a biker bar just to take a joyride. She does not, under any circumstances, let a guy pull her chair out.
Maybe she does now.
The nagging voice in my head pokes a hole in my conviction. What if pretty dresses and sit-down dinners are her thing now? Is it so far-fetched? Maybe the girl I knew last year isn’t the same one who—
I banish the thought. Because, no. Just no. I know Genevieve West like the back of my hand. I know what excites her. I know what makes her smile, and I know what brings tears to her eyes. I know her every mood, and I know the deepest fucking parts of her soul. Maybe she’s got herself fooled, but not me.