Page 130 of Hate You More

He stands without answering and holds out his hand. Where he leads, I follow, because this is my role.

The restroom is . . .

“Really?” I glance over my shoulder as Troy follows me through the door.

“You said . . .” He looks confused. At least until he sees what we’re in for. A sink. A toilet. Fluorescent lights and industrial tile.

“I know, I’m sorry,” I reply quickly. “I obviously didn’t think this through.” The door swings closed behind us and the scent of bleach tickles my nose. At least it’s clean. And separate, no line of stalls. Maybe I was trying to keep things impersonal. And quick?

“I’m glad this isn’t your idea of a good time.” His relief is delivered through a reluctant smile.

“Maybe if we had a pen,” I say, lifting my hand as though writing in the air, “we could write that on the wall. For a good time, call . . .”

“I think you’ve done enough damage with a pen for one day.” He reaches for my hand. “Where’s your ring?” he asks with a sudden frown.

“In my bag. I was committing to this.”

“Can you commit to putting it back on?”

Confusion gives way to a flicker of delight, though I give a tiny lift of my shoulder as I open my purse. “Better?”

The way he looks at my hand, then looks at me feels like a lick of warmth to the pit of my stomach. I think he must read that in my expression as he leans in and puts his lips to mine. Like a match to tinder, the moment explodes. Troy grabs me by the waist, his tongue dipping into my mouth. I give a tiny moan and slip my arms around his neck, goose bumps and tingles spreading across my skin. My heart pounds as his fingers tighten and he presses me backward. My butt hits porcelain, and . . .

I lose it right there, laughter bursting out of me in that instant. The noise is sudden and loud, uncontrollable as it bounces off the cold tiled walls.

“I’m so sorry!” I fold forward, one hand over my mouth, the other braced on the edge of the sink as my shoulders heave. “You’re right. Not here. This isn’t sexy at all.”

He stares at me for a beat, then shakes his head, a smile escaping. “So you’re saying you don’t want to fuck me in the restroom of a bar?”

“No thank you,” I reply, still chuckling. “I clearly didn’t count on the ick factor, the hygiene issues and . . .” I wave my hand. I can’t even.

Troy cradles my cheek in his hand. “You’re impossibly lovely but equally odd, my little Tater Tot.”

“I hate that nickname,” I lie, ignoring how hearing it burns like a candle flame inside. My heart races and anticipation still hums beneath my skin. Because he’s here, and he’s him. My Troy, not my barfly lothario.

“Why don’t we go home? There’s a perfectly good bathroom there, as you know.”

An image flashes in my head—a mash-up of memories. My mouth softly open, painted the same color as the Rosso marble. Troy behind me, hands bruising on my hips. A wire runs through me, charged with electricity. So much for distance. For pretend. How quickly it can turn into a truth.

“No, not the apartment,” I say softly, sliding my arm into his. “How about a hotel?”

“Okay.” He presses his lips to my head, and a sweet ache fills my chest. We leave the bar together, where a car waits.

“We could pivot,” I suggest, looking up at him. “Find somewhere to park and tick off car sex?”

“Let’s stick to the hotel,” he says. “We have time to revisit car sex another day.”

I force a smile. Time. It’s running out. We know when this will end but how . . .

As he opens the passenger door, I decide I’m not going to think about that now.

Chapter 37

Troy

I have plans to meet Clara for dinner tonight—real dinner plans, not pretend. We’re not playing professor and student or hot demanding chef and besotted sous.

We’re meeting at a much-hyped restaurant in SoHo. Somewhere new and high profile, a place that’s already had actresses and famous folk pap’d outside. I thought Clara might get a kick out of that. Be mildly impressed? But at the back of my mind is that all-important narrative.