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Authors: Rachel van Dyken
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jog three miles in order to meet Blake on time—“I promise.”
She was silent, then whispered a thanks before ending the call.
I’d broken the rule of phone calls with Shell only because her text gave me the assumption that she was about two seconds away from tossing her body out the window into Jealous Barista’s waiting arms.
Clients always argued when things were going right. When things went bad? When they realized that Prince Charming was a jackass? They cried. Loads of tears. During those times I gave them numbers to a few counselors on campus and made sure they understood that, although I was sorry, I wasn’t their girlfriend. I refused to be the sounding board when they started lamenting about why all men were the spawn of Satan.
I turned off the car and raced across campus. I was meeting Blake at the Husky Union Building. I was starved, so I was going to officially break one of my own rules—I was going to share a meal with her.
Maybe I should have taken some of the cookies from—what the hell was her name again? I closed my eyes as my mind did a quick rewind of a few hours ago when I’d pounded her against the wall, she screamed my name, and I yelled . . . “Marissa.”
I nodded. Damn hard name to remember. She’d offered me cookies again upon my exit, but girls only did that as a way to lure you back in. Offering a guy a cookie after sex is like telling a kid to pee before you put them in the car for a long road trip. Suddenly they’re all Yeah, I really do need to go to the bathroom. You plant the thought.
Ergo, had I taken Marissa’s cookie, it would have planted the thought that I wanted more of her cookies. And the last thing I needed was to allow her, or any girl for that matter, to think I was committing just because I had a sweet tooth.
Just the thought of it had my body buzzing with warning.
But eating with Blake was different. It wasn’t a booty call.
And it sure as hell wasn’t a date.
I never ate with clients. I shared a coffee, had a beer, but never food. Food meant something else was going on, something deeper. It was like the minute food was brought to the table, a girl’s entire demeanor changed, as if the fact that I bought her steak meant I could keep it in my pants and wanted to get into hers for more than one night.
That rule I’d learned the hard way.
Lex, sorry bastard, was still traumatized over his last date over a year ago. He still refused to even do so much as a happy hour with a client. It was coffee or water. Shocking that he and I almost always got the same results when we took on clients. My methods were gentler, as opposed to Lex’s. Let’s just say he had a hell of a bedside manner.
Sweat pooled at the back of my neck as I pulled off my leather jacket, throwing it over my arm, and opened the door to the HUB. This was Blake, I reminded myself. There was absolutely no worry of her having higher expectations based on meal-sharing. She could hardly tolerate being in the same room with me. Safe to say my Indian did not like her Pilgrim.
I let out a sigh, and there she was, checking her phone, her shoulders hunched, flip-flops visible—only this time the girl was actually sporting a pink scrunchie.
Did they still sell those things? Or was she seriously just buying shit off eBay to mess with my head?
“Blake?” I called her over, crooking my finger in her direction. I wanted to see how she walked toward me, how she approached men. With a shrug, she shoved her phone into the deep, baggy pockets of her basketball shorts and stiffly made her way over. Walking like she had a stick up her ass.
Her hair was pulled tight into a low ponytail, making her face look like it would hurt to smile.
Without acknowledging that she was in front of me, I swore and tugged her hair free.
“Hey!” Her head jerked back with the force of my tug. “Ouch!”
“No.” I held the scrunchie in between us. “Just . . . no.”
“But—”
“Never,” I said slowly as
She was silent, then whispered a thanks before ending the call.
I’d broken the rule of phone calls with Shell only because her text gave me the assumption that she was about two seconds away from tossing her body out the window into Jealous Barista’s waiting arms.
Clients always argued when things were going right. When things went bad? When they realized that Prince Charming was a jackass? They cried. Loads of tears. During those times I gave them numbers to a few counselors on campus and made sure they understood that, although I was sorry, I wasn’t their girlfriend. I refused to be the sounding board when they started lamenting about why all men were the spawn of Satan.
I turned off the car and raced across campus. I was meeting Blake at the Husky Union Building. I was starved, so I was going to officially break one of my own rules—I was going to share a meal with her.
Maybe I should have taken some of the cookies from—what the hell was her name again? I closed my eyes as my mind did a quick rewind of a few hours ago when I’d pounded her against the wall, she screamed my name, and I yelled . . . “Marissa.”
I nodded. Damn hard name to remember. She’d offered me cookies again upon my exit, but girls only did that as a way to lure you back in. Offering a guy a cookie after sex is like telling a kid to pee before you put them in the car for a long road trip. Suddenly they’re all Yeah, I really do need to go to the bathroom. You plant the thought.
Ergo, had I taken Marissa’s cookie, it would have planted the thought that I wanted more of her cookies. And the last thing I needed was to allow her, or any girl for that matter, to think I was committing just because I had a sweet tooth.
Just the thought of it had my body buzzing with warning.
But eating with Blake was different. It wasn’t a booty call.
And it sure as hell wasn’t a date.
I never ate with clients. I shared a coffee, had a beer, but never food. Food meant something else was going on, something deeper. It was like the minute food was brought to the table, a girl’s entire demeanor changed, as if the fact that I bought her steak meant I could keep it in my pants and wanted to get into hers for more than one night.
That rule I’d learned the hard way.
Lex, sorry bastard, was still traumatized over his last date over a year ago. He still refused to even do so much as a happy hour with a client. It was coffee or water. Shocking that he and I almost always got the same results when we took on clients. My methods were gentler, as opposed to Lex’s. Let’s just say he had a hell of a bedside manner.
Sweat pooled at the back of my neck as I pulled off my leather jacket, throwing it over my arm, and opened the door to the HUB. This was Blake, I reminded myself. There was absolutely no worry of her having higher expectations based on meal-sharing. She could hardly tolerate being in the same room with me. Safe to say my Indian did not like her Pilgrim.
I let out a sigh, and there she was, checking her phone, her shoulders hunched, flip-flops visible—only this time the girl was actually sporting a pink scrunchie.
Did they still sell those things? Or was she seriously just buying shit off eBay to mess with my head?
“Blake?” I called her over, crooking my finger in her direction. I wanted to see how she walked toward me, how she approached men. With a shrug, she shoved her phone into the deep, baggy pockets of her basketball shorts and stiffly made her way over. Walking like she had a stick up her ass.
Her hair was pulled tight into a low ponytail, making her face look like it would hurt to smile.
Without acknowledging that she was in front of me, I swore and tugged her hair free.
“Hey!” Her head jerked back with the force of my tug. “Ouch!”
“No.” I held the scrunchie in between us. “Just . . . no.”
“But—”
“Never,” I said slowly as
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