Page 53 of Sex Positive

Wes chuckles. “She’s never been to a party before. I felt bad for her.”

Charlie’s stomach drops.

Mia snorts. “Why?”

“She’s sheltered and awkward. I figured I’d try and show her college is more fun outside of the library.”

Charlie’s eyes sting, and she bites her lip hard enough to bleed.

She should leave now. Before it gets any worse, but she can’t move even while her heart cracks in her chest.

“So you’re not trying to sleep with her?”

Wes laughs.Laughs. A laugh tinged with disbelief, as if the thought of them together is unfathomable.

She usually loves his laugh for how uninhibited it is, but now it feels like knives puncturing her skin. Now she wants to tear the sound from her mind, her memory, her heart.

“No.” A chuckle. “Absolutely not. I don’t fuck my friends, Mia.”

Blood roars in her ears, and Charlie claps a hand over her mouth after a sharp gasp escapes. Her chest constricts, and it’s like she’s drowning on land, unable to catch her breath.

“Good,” Mia purrs. “Because I don’t want to be friends with you.”

Silence follows. Her vision is blurred with tears, but through the small opening in the door, she sees Wes and Mia pressed against a wall, locked in a deep kiss, Wes’s hands grabbing her ass.

Stumbling back down the hall, Charlie somehow navigates her way through the kitchen and past the bodies lost in the music and the alcohol, completely unaware of her heartbreak.

Returning to the fresh open air, she takes in deep, gasping breaths, a painful hitch in her chest. Wes’s words ricochet through her mind again and again, the disdain in his laughter, the mockery in Mia’s coquettish giggles shattering every shared smile, every inside joke, every accidental touch over the last few months.

For one brief, infinitesimal moment, she thought he wanted her, too. Thought her desires were reciprocated. Thought he was someone she could trust with her whole self.

She won’t make that mistake again.

Fourteen

Despite her insistenceto not forget her past with him, three days later, she’s presented with a stark reminder that Wesley Quinn is an itch she can’t scratch. He’s been a constant presence in her mind with the potential to fester into an infection, and now he’s sitting in room three of The Wild Rue.

His face breaks into a radiant grin, his eyes glittering with unsuppressed delight. “Hi.”

“Hello,” she says, her heart racing.

She knew he was here before she opened the door—his name was on the schedule when she reviewed the patient list that morning—yet her body still fizzes with unrestrained surprise.

Crossing the room, she perches in the chair, sets down her laptop, and opens his medical record. “My name is Charlie, and I’m your medical assistant today. Can you please confirm your name and date of birth for me?”

He does, and she types in a date in January, her gaze flicking between him and her computer screen. His mouth twitches with mirth.

“What brings you to the clinic today?” She knows this, too, as the reason for his appointment is listed next to his name.

“I’d like to get tested for sexually transmitted diseases.”

“Infections,” she corrects. “We’re moving away from the termdiseasebecause it implies a more serious medical condition, and typically an infection like chlamydia or gonorrhea isn’t—” She stops when he presses his lips together in silent laughter.

Returning to the screen, she nods. “Anyway. Any known exposures?”

“No,” he replies, his voice laced with amusement. “But you can never be too careful.”

Since returning from NYC five days ago, they haven’t spoken, and he hasn’t reached out to schedule another tutoring session. She certainly isn’t going to be the one to do so. She’s busy enough with her job and school; she doesn’t need to use her remaining brain power to linger on Wesley Quinn and their day in New York.