Page 67 of Sex Positive

But she’s also afraid of what her friend will think. She’s afraid Sy will see how irrational it is to give Wes access to the most intimate parts of her simply because she can’t seem to let him go and he makes her feel impossible things.

“Would you believe me if I said it’s complicated?”

Sy frowns. “Depends on the complication.”

Charlie sips her coffee, stalling. “We’re kind of…” She presses her lips together. “Fooling around, I guess.”

“Charlotte Jane Rogers.” Coffee mug abandoned on the counter, Sy stares at her, hands planted on her hips. “Pleasetell me you are not participating in a casual fuck buddy situation with the boy who”—she mouths—“broke your heart.”

“If you want to be technical about it, we’re not fucking,” Charlie mutters.

Sy makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat, and Charlie prepares herself to hear her roommate’s very appropriate argument against what she’s doing, but then Wes groans. They both snap their attention to the couch, where he blinks open his eyes and grimaces, another groan escaping.

“That’s my cue,” Sy says. “I’m meeting Bri to talk. Not sure what’s going to happen, but I might be gone for a while.” She chews her bottom lip nervously.

Charlie squeezes her hand. “Good luck.”

Sy flashes her a pointed look, brows raised. “You too. We’re not done talking about this, young lady.”

Setting her mug in the sink, she grabs her keys from the counter, wiggling her fingers before departing.

Charlie sips her coffee as Wes slowly sits up and leans forward with yet another groan. Resting his elbows on his knees, he covers his face with his hands.

“Good morning,” she says.

Tilting his face toward her, he peers at her through narrowed slits like every second he’s upright is taking a physical toll on him.

“Is it?” he quips.

Despite her hurt and ire, she takes pity on him.

“Can I get you some coffee? Or ibuprofen?”

He spots the water on the coffee table and heaves a sigh before reaching for it and drinking the entire glass in one go. “Both would be great,” he croaks. “Thank you.”

She retrieves the ibuprofen from a drawer next to the silverware, fills another mug with coffee, and carries both to the couch. Perching next to him, she extends the mug and opens her palm.

“Thanks.” He swallows the pills before taking a long gulp of coffee. “Glad you remembered I like it black.”

She hums. “Well, when you drink jet fuel, it’s hard to forget.”

His mouth twitches as he peers at the mug’s contents. “Do you still make yours with that processed creamer that doesn’t need to be refrigerated and three sugars?”

Ignoring the bloom of warmth in her chest—he still remembers her exact coffee order from when he would bring it to their library study sessions—she slurps her coffee noisily. “Every morning.”

He rests his head in his hands again, grimacing. “Gross.”

She waits despite the hundred questions bubbling on her tongue.

Finally, he lifts his gaze, green eyes full of remorse. “I’m sorry I missed the party, Rogers. You have to believe me when I say I wanted to be there. More than anything.”

Surprise at his unprompted apology ripples through her, and it must show because he frowns. “It was my dad. I was literally stepping out the door when he called and said there was a car waiting to bring me to DC for a client dinner. When I told him I had other plans, he reminded me of my obligation to continue the Quinnlegacy.” A muscle clenches in his jaw. “It sounds like the flimsiest of excuses, but I promise it’s true. I didn’t tell you because I thought I could make the end of your party, and by the time I realized I wouldn’t, we were at our third bar, and I just said fuck it and got blitzed on top-shelf liquor.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, mussing it even more. “When my dad wants something, he expects you to do it without question. It’s been like that my entire life. I don’t think he sees me as my own person, just a machine of his design with no opinions or thoughts of my own.” He huffs out a hollow laugh. “He even wanted me to go to college in NYC so I could be closer to him. But I wanted to go to Archwood. A small act of rebellion, I guess, but it was liberating.” He flashes a wry smile. “Yet he still manages to get to me here.”

As she listens to his confession, watches this rare moment of vulnerability, something inside Charlie thaws. The dark circles under his eyes make sense now, the exhaustion she often glimpses in his powerfully built body. The slump of his shoulders, the despondency in his voice tugs at her in a way she doesn’t want to examine too closely for fear it’ll reveal that she does not truly hate this man.

She once thought he had the perfect life. Thought he had everything he could ever want handed to him on a silver platter.