“Please. Relax and let's go get some ice cream.”
“Ice cream?” I ask incredulously. “We're on our way to get ice cream. What … what are you thinking? You just admitted you lied to me about being a nanny. You had sex with me.”
“You seem really focused on the sex thing, Brooke. Relax. It's totally natural what happened between us.”
“Ew. Dear God, please don't talk like that, okay? That was … wow. What a horrible mistake. And I was going to do it again,” I mumble under my breath. Zayden leans theatrically towards me and then punches the stereo back on.
“Wait, wait … what was that, Smarty-Pants? See, I knew it. You want to fuck me again.”
“Take me home,” I say, turning the music off again. “I'm not going to get ice cream with some guy who lied to me. I've had just about all I can take with liars in my life.” Zay sits up, but he doesn't make any effort to turn the car around, instead taking us in the direction of Old Town. It's a cute area if you're a tourist, but after one walk around to look at all the local hipster shops, you're pretty much done. Maybe there's an ice cream place there now, but I wouldn't know since I haven't had a chance to head down there since I got back. “Zay.”
“I'm not just some guy anymore,” he says as he taps his hand in time to some awful song that says girl and baby every three seconds. “I'm your friend, and as your friend, I'm telling you that you need ice cream like, stat.”
“Are you buying then? Because I don't have any money. What little I scrounged up in tips last night is already allocated for bills.”
“Whoa. Are you adulting all over me right now? Sure. I'll buy you some ice cream, but I want you to listen to what I'm saying. Relax. Let me help you out, okay? Where are you gonna find a replacement nanny before work tonight?” I glance at the clock and get a kind of nervous flutter in my tummy. Last night wasn't so bad, I guess, but what if there are more people there tonight? How am I going to handle an entire crowd?
Like you did last night, when you thought of Zayden's hands on your body.
I hate to admit it, but … it made things bearable.
I cross my arms over my chest and lean back in the seat with my eyes closed. This is sort of the last thing I needed right now … and sort of the exact thing I needed at the same time. It's weird, I know, but … I open my eyes and them slide over to Zayden as … he starts mouthing the words to “Lucky” by Britney Spears?
Um.
My mouth breaks into a smile and he raises his eyebrows, pointing over at me.
“See? This is why I like pop music.” When he starts snapping his fingers and biting his lower lip, I draw the line.
“Jesus, okay. I get it. Please stop.” Zayden laughs, ruffling up the side of his head that still has hair. I resist the urge to reach out and trace one of the stars he's shaved onto his scalp. He's just a little bit cute though, right? I refuse to admit that I like him—even a little. “You're really doing all this to help me out? Just because you're a nice guy?”
“I've got a white knight disorder,” he says as he glances over at me with those gorgeous eyes of his. They're the same color as the lichen that clings to the sides of the trees in my sister's backyard. Pale, but pretty, mysterious. Ugh. “That's why I have so many exes. I know they're bad news, but I want to help 'em out, you know?”
“And that has nothing to do with sex?”
“Well, that's just a consolation prize.” He gives me a look that's a lot less cute than the last one. It makes me squirm, the way his eyes rake over my body. “If it was just sex I wanted, I can get that, too. But I always end up getting tangled in these,” he gestures with his right hand and I find myself mesmerized by his tattoos, “fucked up relationships.”
“Do you think that speaks more to your character than to your million exes? Maybe there's something wrong with you and not them?”
“Ooooh.” Zayden taps his right shoulder with his left hand and makes a sizzling sound. “Ouch. Burn, much? You could be right, I guess.” He looks over at me and his face gets that … look again, like he's about to drive his hips into mine. I squirm and wiggle in my seat, squeezing my thighs tight against the sudden pulse between them. “So tell me, what's my problem then?”
“How should I know? We”—I gesture between the two of us—“are not in a relationship.”
“Sure we are. Any connection with another person is a relationship. It's how you define that relationship that matters. Me and you, we're friends now.”
“We are not friends. We are strangers. Strangers. And you are a non-nanny that's watching my kids for free and eating all my organic applesauce. Are you sure this isn't a scam? Are you trying to pull one over on me?”