Page 21 of Twisted Control

BEST COCK EVER: It’s suspiciously quiet up there.

BEST COCK EVER: Should I be concerned, or are you avoiding me because you can’t trust yourself around me?

BEST COCK EVER: Guest house is boring as hell.

BEST COCK EVER: Let’s go out. Public place. Very safe.

A reluctant smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. He’s such an idiot.

I turn toward the mirror and catch my own reflection staring back at me. For a second I don’t even recognize the girl looking back—flushed cheeks, the ghost of that smile still lingering. I force my expression into something neutral.

He’s not funny and I am not into him.

I don’t understand why half the women on Harlow Drive were practically drooling over him today. Yes, he’s tall and stupidly handsome and there’s something undeniably sensual about the way he moves…but he’s also insufferable. The sheer arrogance of him thinking I’m going to sleep with him again is honestly astounding.

If I’m going to get through this, I need him to stop being so suggestive. I need him to back off completely. The problem is, that’s proving a lot harder than it should be. Because I’m quite the catch. And clearly the best lover he’s ever had.

I open my laptop with a little more force than necessary.

There’s a message board I lurk on sometimes—GirlTalk Unfiltered. Women giving other women brutally honest advice, usually with a little too much confidence. Occasionally they actually have something useful to say.

I type into the search bar: how to get rid of a man.

I scan the replies until I hit pure gold.

Tell him you want commitment. Scares them off every single time.

A slow grin spreads across my face. It’s so obvious. Men like Drew don’t do commitment. All I have to do is pretend I want something serious and he’ll run for the hills—or in his case, straight back downtown. He’ll start avoiding me. And maybe I’ll finally be able to get a massage in peace.

Perfect.

But if I’m going to pull this off, I need to make it believable. I glance at the stack of old magazines on my bookcase and my grin widens.

He keeps joking that I want him.

So I’ll play into it.

Big time.

Half an hour later, I knock on the guest house door, clutching my diary against my chest. Drew opens it right away. He’s still in his suit. He fixes me with a grin, like I’ve walked into his trap. But it’s my trap.

“What do you think of the name Daphne?” I ask.

“Don’t like it.”

“Mia?”

“Nope.”

“Colette?”

He just shakes his head.

I get impatient. “What names do you like then?”

“Grace has a nice ring to it,” he says, completely straight-faced. “It’s actually my favorite name.”

“Sure it is,” I mutter.