The Deal

I won’t lie, I was thrilled to hear it had gone well. But not thrilled enough to initiate an actual conversation, so I simply sent back one word—“nice”—and that was the only contact we had up until twenty minutes ago, when he messaged to say he was on his way to pick me up for the party.

As far as I’m concerned, the kiss didn’t happen. Our lips didn’t touch, and my body didn’t ache. He didn’t groan when my tongue filled his mouth, and I didn’t whimper when his lips latched onto that sensitive spot on my neck.

It didn’t happen.

But…well, if it didn’t happen, then there’s no reason for me to bail on the party, now is there? Because no matter how confused and stricken the ki—the big mistake had left me, I’m still eager for a chance to see Justin outside of class.

I can’t bring myself to tell Allie the truth, though. I’m usually so confident in other areas of my life. Singing, schoolwork, friends. When it comes to relationships, I revert back to that traumatized fifteen-year-old who required three years of therapy before she was able to feel normal again. I know Allie would disapprove if she knew I was using Garrett to get to Justin, and right now, I’m not in the mood to be lectured.

“Trust me, shenanigans are Garrett’s middle name,” I say dryly. “The guy treats life like a game.”

“And you, Hannah Wells, are playing along?” She shakes her head, incredulous. “Are you sure you don’t have a thing for this guy?”

“Garrett? No way,” I say immediately.

Uh-huh. Because you alwaaaaaays make out with guys you don’t like.

I banish the internal taunt. Nope, I didn’t make out with Garrett. I was simply meeting a challenge.

The mocking voice rears its head again. And you felt absolutely nothing, right?

Argh, why isn’t there an off switch for that sarcastic part of your brain? Except I know that doing that won’t erase the truth. I did feel something when we kissed. Those tingles that Justin evokes in me? I felt them the other night with Garrett. They were different, though. The butterflies didn’t just float around in my belly—they took flight and raced through my entire body, making every inch of me pulse with pleasure.

But it meant nothing. In the span of ten days, Garrett went from being a stranger to a nuisance to a friend, but that’s as far as I’m willing to take it. I don’t want to date him, no matter how good a kisser he is.

Before Allie can grill me further, Garrett texts to inform me he’s here. I’m about to tell him to wait in the car, but I guess we have different definitions of here, because a loud knock sounds on the door a second later.

I sigh. “That’s Garrett. Can you let him in? I just want to put my hair up.”

Allie grins and disappears. As I run a brush through my hair, I hear voices in the living area, followed by a squeaky protest and then heavy footsteps heading to my bedroom.

Garrett appears in the doorway wearing dark blue jeans and a black sweater, and something terrible happens. My heart turns into a dolphin and does a stupid little flip of excitement.

Excitement, for fuck’s sake.

God, that ki—mistake really messed with my head.

He scrutinizes my clothes before raising one eyebrow. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Yes.” I bristle. “Got a problem with that?”

He tilts his head to the side like he’s Tim fucking Gunn judging an outfit on Project Runway. “I’m totally digging the jeans and boots, but the shirt has gotta go.”

I examine my loose blue-and-white striped sweater but I honestly don’t see the issue. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s too baggy. I thought we talked about how you need to show off your stripper tits.”

A strangled cough comes from behind him. “Stripper tits?” Allie echoes as she steps into the room.

“Ignore him,” I tell her. “He’s a chauvinist.”

“No, I’m a guy,” he corrects, then proceeds to flash his trademark grin. “I want to see some cleavage.”

“I like this sweater,” I protest.

Garrett glances at Allie. “Hi, I’m Garrett. What’s your name again?”

“Allie. Hannah’s roommate and BFF.”

“Great. Well, can you tell your roomie and BFF that she looks like a reject from a sailing show?”

She laughs, and then, to my horror—Benedict Arnold!—she agrees with him. “It wouldn’t hurt to wear something more form-fitting,” she says tactfully.

I scowl at her.

Garrett beams. “See? We’re all in agreement. Go big or go home, Wellsy.”

Allie looks from me to Garrett, and I know exactly what she’s thinking. But she’s wrong. We’re not into each other, and we’re certainly not dating. But I suppose it’s better she think that than know I’m going out with him to impress someone else.

Garrett strides to my closet like he owns it. When he pokes his dark head inside, Allie shoots me a grin. She seems highly entertained by all this.

He flips through the hangers to examine my wardrobe, then pulls out a sheer black top. “How about this?”

“No way. It’s see-through.”

“Then why do you own it?”

Good question.