Page 28 of Taking Sides

August moves behind Conrad and smiles at me, extending his hand.

“Nice to see you again,” August says.

“Likewise.”

Then all that’s left is for me and Conrad to acknowledge each other. I take a step back, putting some distance between us as I say, “Thanks for coming.”

I spin around before he can reply—which is highly unlikely anyway.

“Thanks for coming?” I mutter to myself as I walk down the hallway and out the side door. I suck in the cold air and increase my pace as I hurry toward my car. I can’t wait to get home, take off my bra, and scroll cute dog videos. And absolutely not think about Conrad Shepard.

“Whitney.”

For a second, I think the voice is in my head, but when he calls out my name a second time, I pause. There’s little light out here and the employee parking lot is empty aside from my car and two others, but I don’t need to see well to recognize him.

“Hi?” The word comes out like a question.

“Hey.” He lifts a hand and rubs at the back of his neck. If I thought he’d suddenly decided to burst into a lengthy explanation for his every move, then I would be very disappointed.

After a few seconds of silence stretching between us, he says, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” My brow furrows.

“Being the worst date ever.” He smiles, but it looks strained.

It’s unfortunate that he’s so nice, he thinks he needs to apologize for not being into me. It only makes me want to know him more.

“It’s okay. Really.” I take a step closer to him.

“No, it isn’t. I . . .” He opens his mouth, then closes it. His lips press into a hard line.

“You don’t need to explain yourself. We went out, you weren’t into me, and we went our separate ways. I’ve barely thought about it.” Only once or twice every day (cough, hour).

His head tilts, and his blue eyes narrow like I’m speaking in riddles. “Not into you?”

“Well, yeah. Isn’t that what we’re talking about?”

“No.”

“No?”

He has a real way with one-word answers that somehow leave me more confused.

“Then I have no idea⁠—”

He spins around, giving me his back, before I finish my sentence. Okay, then. I guess that’s that. Conversation over? Except he doesn’t move. His shoulders rise and fall and then he rakes both hands through his hair. What is happening?

“Listen. Honestly. Whatever the reason, I’m a big girl. I can handle it. I don’t typically date hockey players anyway. I admit I was a little disappointed. I liked you and it’s been a hot minute since I’ve been out with a guy I was excited about, but it’s been months now. So really. It’s fi⁠—”

My words are cut off by his lips. He moved so quickly, I didn’t see it coming, but his mouth covers mine and his hands come up to frame my face. Big, warm hands that cradle me carefully while his lips press against mine more insistently. I inhale a surprised breath. My mind is spinning, but the rest of me leaps at the opportunity and cares little for the reasoning. Maybe this is a “sorry, I don’t like you” kiss in which case, wow—I wonder how he kisses women he does like.

Later, I might replay this and be embarrassed at how eagerly I respond—fisting his shirt in my fingers and lifting onto my toes to get closer to him. But not now.

He lets out a low hum and pulls back far sooner than I want. My eyes flutter open slowly. I might need him to kiss me one more time . . . you know, to really cement how much he doesn’t like me. I never understood hate sex, but if it’s anything like this “sorry, I don’t like you” kiss, then I need to rethink things.

“I’m not good with words. I freeze and my mind goes blank. Especially with women.” He clears his throat. “Especially women I’m interested in.” He waves a hand in my direction almost absently like “Hey, you. I guess you’ll do.” Except his words combined with that kiss . . . I think I’m starting to understand.

“Who needs words?” I press two fingers to my lips.