Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

“Who?”

“Your sister.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Maybe you don’t want to share your hookups with your younger sister, who might very well be a minor.” She didn’t look it, but the older I got, the more every age under twenty-five blended together.

“She’s almost twenty-two. Or thirteen, I’m never sure.”

“You’re the elder?”

He nodded. “Is Vincent older?”

“He’s three years younger. And it’s just us.”

“I figured, since the cabin’s split in two.”

“Yeah.” I didn’t want to talk about him. “Your sister seems . . .”

“Nice?”

Actually, what I’d been thinking was that Maya and Eli looked comfortable together, and I felt irrationally betrayed by that. When we first met, I’d gotten the impression that their relationship was as fraught as mine was with Vince. “Does she live here?”

“Yup.”

“Of her own free will? Or are you kidnapping her, too?”

“Believe it or not, she asked to move in.” He seemed incredulous, too. “I offered to pay for an apartment near campus, but she wanted to live with her closest surviving blood relative. To keep an eye on her set of spare kidneys, probably.”

I smiled, and so did he. Like amusing me was a rewarding micro-hobby of his.

“Is this the home where you grew up?”

“Nope. I grew up in South Austin. Riverside. The bank took that home about a decade ago, though. What about you?”

We never owned a home for the bank to take, my sleep-woolly brain almost responded. “I lived in Salado.”

His eyebrow rose. “And you commuted every day to Dave’s rink?”

“Yes.”

He cocked his head. “How did you end up skating, anyway?”

“Tisha’s mom used to be an ice dancer. She thought I looked promising, found Alec.” I didn’t elaborate on the rest. How liberating it had been, pushing through the cold of the ice, being away from my family. How grueling practice had become as the stakes had risen. How impossible it had been to consider quitting with the prospect of waived tuition fees dangling in front of my eyes. Instead, I changed the topic. “Do you bring home lots of women?”

“I believe you were a first.” He shrugged. “Although my exfiancée used to live here.” “The chef.”

“Yup.”

I tilted my head and watched him lean against the counter, enjoying the way he filled a room. How concrete his presence felt. “How does that happen?”

“What?”

“How do you go from wanting to marry someone to . . . not?”

“Surprisingly quickly. With limited drama, too.” No cheating, then. What else, though? Had they fallen out of love? Had she moved away for her fancy chef job? Had she broken his heart? “Have you ever been in a relationship?” he asked.

“By relationship, you mean . . . ?”

“A mutually agreed-upon, medium-or long-term romantic engagement. Dating, if you prefer.” He smiled the same grin I’d felt between my legs last night. What we’d done should have helped me metabolize him, but I was no closer to finding him uninteresting than I’d ever been. The opposite, if anything.

A silver coin refusing to oxidize, that’s what he was. A compulsive tingle hooked right in my belly.

“It’s none of my business,” he continued, “but I’d still love it if you told me.”

“No. You’re the first person I’ve been with more than once.”

His lip curled. “Sex is that good, huh?”

It’s because with you I never have to worry about being too odd, too unlikable, too out of tune. You never make me feel anything other than just right. But the sex was the best I’d ever had, so I simply said, “Yes.”

My soft honesty seemed to disarm him. His face fell, and his eyes darkened. “Come here,” he beckoned, just a flick of his fingers, and even though it meant betraying Florence, who’d given me the world, I did go. Let him pull me closer, into his chest.

“I believe,” he murmured against my ear, “I owe you something.”

“You can keep my underwear.”

“Not that.”

“What, then?”

“We said three times.”

A buzzing, warm static filled the air between us. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not . . .” It’s uncountable. You, and the things we do, the things you give me, the things you make me feel, they’re impossible to quantify. They are good in a way that goes beyond orgasms, and I can’t really keep track, or tick off checkboxes. It’s confusing. You are confusing. “It’s fine.”

“Is it?” He filled the space between us. His mouth tasted of toothpaste and rainy mornings, his kiss at once shallow and intense, eager yet lingering. Not a we’re about to fuck kiss. Not a we just fucked kiss. Those were the extent of my experiences so far, so I wasn’t certain how to categorize this one.

Goodbye. Maybe it was a goodbye kiss.

He slowly pulled back. “You can’t go out like this, Rue.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re filthy. You need a shower, don’t you?”