Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            He cocks his head. “Why?”

            “I don’t know. I just . . .” I could bullshit an answer for him. But it seems unfair. He’s earned more from me. “I just can’t believe that anyone would do that for me.”

            “Right.” He sighs and bites into his lower lip. “Hannah, if that changes. If you ever find yourself able to believe that someone could care about you that much. And if you wanted to actually . . . have dinner with that someone.” He lets out a laugh. “Well . . . Please, consider me. You know where to find me.”

            “Oh. Oh, I . . .” I feel heat creep up my face. Am I blushing? I didn’t even know my body was capable of it. “I actually wasn’t asking you to come up just for . . . I mean, maybe that, too, but mostly . . .” I screw my eyes shut. “I expressed myself poorly. I was inviting you up because I would love to have dinner. With you,” I blurt out.

            When I find the guts to open my eyes, Ian’s expression is stunned.

            “Are you . . .” I think he forgot how to breathe. He clears his throat, coughs once, swallows, coughs again. “Are you serious?”

            “Yes. I mean,” I hurry to add, “I still think you won’t like it. I’m just . . . really not that kind of person.”

            “What kind of person?”

            “The kind that people enjoy being with for anything that isn’t . . . well, sex. Or sex related. Or directly leading up to sex.”

            “Hannah.” He gives me a skeptical look. “You have two friends who dropped everything to be with you. And I assume sex wasn’t involved.”

            “It wasn’t. And I—I would drop everything for them, but they’re different. They’re my people, and—” Shit, I really am about to tear up. What the hell, you almost die once and your mental stability gets all fucked up? “There are plenty of people who would disagree. Like my family. And you . . . You’ll probably end up not liking me.”

            He smiles. “Seems improbable, since I already like you.”

            “Then you’ll stop. You—” I run a hand through my hair, wishing he understood. “You’ll change your mind.”

            He looks at me like I’m just a bit crazy. “In the span of one dinner?”

            “Yes. You’ll think I’m a waste of your time. Boring.”

            He’s starting to just look . . . amused. Like I’m ridiculous. Which . . . I don’t know. Maybe I am. “If that happens, I’ll just put you to work. Have you debug some of my code.”

            I laugh a little and look out the window. There are no cars at this time of night, no one walking their dog or taking a stroll. It’s just Ian and me on the street. I love it and hate it. “I still think you’d get the most out of this if we fucked,” I mutter.

            “I agree.”

            I turn to him, surprised. “You do?”

            “Of course. You think I don’t want to fuck you?”

            “I . . . Kind of?”

            “Hannah.” He unbuckles his seat belt and angles himself toward me, so that I have no choice but to look him in the eyes. He looks earnest and nearly offended. “I have thought about what happened in my office every day for the past five years. You offered to go down on me, and I just . . . embarrassed myself, and it should be the most mortifying memory I have, but for some reason it’s turned into the axis every fantasy of mine spins around, and”—he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose—“I want to fuck you. Obviously. Always have. I just don’t want to fuck you once. I want to do it a lot. For a long time. I want you to come to me for sex, but I also want you to come to me when you need help with your taxes and moving your furniture. I want fucking to be only one of the million things I do for you, and I want to be—” He stops. Seems to collect himself and straightens, as if to give me space. To give us space. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to crowd you. You can . . .”

            He pulls back a few inches, and all I can do is look at him openmouthed. Shocked. Speechless. Absolutely . . . yeah. Did this really happen? Is it really happening? And the worst part is, I’m almost positive that his words have dislodged something in my brain, because the only thing I can think of saying in response to all he said is: “Is that a yes on dinner?”