“What a loser, then.”
“You have no idea.” She laughs, and disappears as she pulls the shirt over her head.
And, ah, I get it. “He cheated, didn’t he?”
When she reemerges from the shirt, she eyes me warily. “How did you know?”
“You have that All Men Are Assholes vibe.”
“It’s been my experience that most men are cheaters at some point.”
I feel my head jerk back slightly. “?‘Most men’? That seems a little harsh.”
She shrugs. “I’m not really in a business where I meet a lot of sincere gentlemen.”
“Why do you work at a bar, then?” I pause when she doesn’t answer and then wince. “There’s no good way to say this, so here goes: You have a degree. You don’t need to sling drinks for a living.”
“It’s not as easy to find a job as you may be thinking, lawyer boy. Also, I like mixing drinks. The schedule is good. I surf during the day and do some freelance stuff in my free time. Bartending makes good money. Freelancing . . . does not. Not yet.”
“Freelance graphic design?”
“Yeah. Some drawing. Logos. Videos. Websites.” She grows tight; shoulder pulled in, palms pressed together, hands captured between her knees where she sits on my bed. Her body screams, Can I go now?
I recognize the posture. I’ve worn that posture. For some reason, it rankles me after what we just did, and makes me want to keep her here longer. Why is my instinct with her always to push, just a little?
“Well, there’s never any danger of meeting someone if you work from home, or at a bar where you’re sure to never meet anyone you like.”
She looks up at me, and her blue eyes seem to glow in the darkening room. “What about you? When was the last time you had someone you’d consider a girlfriend?”
“Freshman year.”
She gives me an incredulous look. “That’s four years ago.”
“I know. But we were together for a while before then.” I sit at the edge of my bed next to her and bend, resting my elbows on my thighs. I’m still only in my towel.
“Luke?”
I can feel her eyes on my face, and turn to look over at her. Just by her expression I know she’s putting two and two together. “Yeah?”
“How exactly do you know Mia?”
I smile but I don’t feel it move past the twist of my lips. “She’s my ex.”
“Oh.” Her eyes fall closed. “Oh. I’ve heard mention in passing of the boyfriend before Ansel. You were together for a long time.”
“Our first kiss was when we were twelve.”
“And your last?” she asks.
My heart hurts with a phantom limb pain, the way it always does when I remember: we both knew it was the last kiss. “Nineteen.”
London stands, opening her eyes, wiping her hands down her sides, and looking around as if searching for something. “I feel a little weird about this all of a sudden.”
I follow her when she walks into the bathroom, picking up her pile of discarded clothes. “God, why?” I ask. “Mia certainly doesn’t care.”
“She doesn’t know about this,” she says, motioning between us. “I mean, Mia and I aren’t, like, best friends or anything, but we are friends and apparently I’ve been banging her ex.”
“We haven’t really ‘been banging.’ You’ve banged me twice and actually, I’ve done most of the work. You can claim thirteen percent responsibility and then you can shirk that, if you want, since you didn’t know I was her ex.”
She doesn’t even crack a smile at this as she walks out of the bedroom to the kitchen, slipping on her flip-flops. “Still. Ugh.”
I’ve hit pause on the growing interest inside me, shut off any real reaction to this. I like London but she’s got some weird chick force field around her I’m not even going to pretend to understand, and this Mia thing seems to make it stronger.
“Well, regardless, today was nice,” I tell her quietly.
She nods but won’t look at me. “It was.”
I know she won’t use it but I can’t help giving her my number. Tearing the back off an envelope on the counter, I write it down and slide it across to her. “In case you ever want another complimentary shampoo.”
She stares at it before taking the pen from me, tearing off another piece, and writing something down. With a dry laugh, she slides it to me, grabs her keys, and heads to the front door.
In case of emergency.
Logan: 619-555-0127
After I hear her car pull away from the curb, I dial the number and laugh in spite of myself when a deep male voice answers the call: “Fred’s Bar, Fred speaking.”
Chapter FIVE
London
THE STAIRS LEADING down the front of Luke’s little La Jolla house seem a lot longer than they did going up. It’s like I can’t move fast enough and end up taking them two at a time, skipping the last one entirely and landing a little too hard on the pavement at the bottom.