My Favorite Half-Night Stand by Christina Lauren
chapter three
millie
Hey, Taylor,” I say. “This is Millie. Millie Morris? I’m not sure if you remember me or not—we saw Girl on the Train together at the dollar theater last summer? You kept insisting that the new wife couldn’t be the killer because she was a mother, and I argued that forty-two percent of children killed by a parent are killed by the mother, alone or with an accomplice. Um, anyway, I have this thing in June and I was wondering if you’d like to be my date. It’s black tie and I have to RSVP, so if you could give me a call as soon as possible. And haha, I promise not to talk about mothers murdering their own children—”
The line disconnects. That’s weird, I think, but I pencil in a check mark on the MAYBE column next to Taylor Baldwin’s name anyway.
“A ‘maybe’?”
I jump at the sound of Reid’s voice so close to my ear. Heat radiates off his skin as he tries to read over my shoulder. His hair is damp where it brushes my cheek; he’s freshly showered and standing so close that even during lunchtime rush in the campus café I can smell the lemongrass soap he always keeps in his gym bag. It’s been three days since our sexcapade, and I swear my blood pressure still hasn’t completely recovered.
An elbow to his stomach sends him back into his own space and has the added benefit of allowing me to angle my date notebook away from him. “Do your feet even touch the ground when you walk? I didn’t hear you.”
He leans over the chair beside mine, catching my eye. “Were you really quoting murder stats while asking someone out? I may have some insight into why you haven’t dated since the fetus barista at Cajé.”
“Um, pardon me, sir. I was using that as context since I wasn’t sure he would remember me by name. Maybe the guy sees a lot of movies.” I erase my checkmark with an aggressive rub before sweeping eraser crumbs into Reid’s lap.
Suppressed laughter curves the corners of his mouth and my eyes are snagged there, my thoughts drifting from mouths to lips to tongues, and all the things those parts managed very capably to do. I want to rub Purell on my brain. Trying to be cool about banging your best friend is a lot harder than I would have anticipated.
“I was just giving him some details to jog his memory.”
“I can think of a handful of adjectives to describe you,” he says, and slides his tray down next to mine and sits. “Forgettable is not one of them.”
A tiny, hot bubble bursts in my thoughts, making me want to ask—You mean, even in bed?—but I make a show of scrutinizing my notebook instead, ignoring the embarrassed flush I feel warming the back of my neck. “Thanks. I think.”
He unwraps a set of plastic utensils from a paper napkin. “You’re calling guys in the middle of the lunch rush?”
“The noise is my camouflage! I can’t do it in my office. What if Dustin walked by and heard me asking someone out in a voicemail? I’d have to suffer his smug face for a month.”
Reid stares at me for a couple breaths longer before he seems to decide to give up on this. Or me. He digs a fork into his salad with one hand and thumbs through a scientific journal with the other. Despite my momentary short circuit a few minutes ago, things have been . . . fine between us. Normal. Comfortable. Did we manage to avoid the awkward sleeping-with-your-strictly-platonic-bestie thing? I can’t possibly be that lucky.
I bend, picking at my own salad.
“So who were you calling?” Reid asks, nodding toward my phone.
I stab a piece of cucumber. “If you’d started your eavesdropping a little earlier, you’d have heard that his name is Taylor.”
Reid takes a bite, chewing while he searches his memory. “Taylor. Why doesn’t that ring a bell?”
I shrug, picking out the tomatoes and setting them off to the side. I’m not surprised Reid doesn’t remember him. For starters, Taylor and I went out once, almost a year ago, and I’m not all that chatty about my love life, anyway. Reid and the guys might go on and on about their dates—or lack thereof—but it’s never been my thing.
“How many have you called so far?” he asks.
“Three.” I’ve called seven. “Are you going to hassle me?”
He holds up his hands, defensive. “Just making conversation.”
“You know, at least I’m trying. How many have you called, Reid?”
He shoves a forkful of lettuce into his mouth and grunts something noncommittal into his salad.
I sit back. “That’s what I thought.”
He swallows before reaching for his bottle of water. “I had a lecture on optic neuritis to prepare and we need to submit a few abstracts for the Society for Neuroscience meeting. Plus, someone has to scour the pages of Pinball Enthusiast for Ed’s next birthday present.” He pauses just long enough to wave away my I knew it face. “I’ve been busy, okay? I’ll get to it.”
I raise my brows. “We’re all busy.”
The grounds crew is working outside the café, and when the door opens again it brings with it a gust of air fresh with cut grass. It also brings Chris, who is clearly agitated as he makes his way to our table.
“Do you have any idea how many available, reasonably attractive single women over the age of twenty-five I interact with on a daily basis?” he says in lieu of a greeting.
I blink. “Hi, Chris.”
He sets an insulated coffee mug on the table and pulls out the chair next to Reid. “I’ll fill you in: two. One is the lady who lives above me and walks her cats, and the other is you.”
I stick a piece of lettuce to my front teeth and give him my cheesiest smile. “So, what you’re saying is . . . I’ve got a chance.”
Reid and Chris stare blankly at me for a lingering beat before turning back to each other.
“It’s only been a few days,” Reid tells him. “I think you’re too stressed about this.”
“That’s what Chris does,” I remind him, pulling the lettuce free. “He takes things very seriously and does them better than all of us.”
Ed steps up behind Chris’s chair, pulling out the last seat at our small table, asking him, “Didn’t you and Rebecca Fielding bang in the bathroom at the faculty Christmas party? You could ask her, since you’ve already dated.”
Chris lets out an audible sigh, but it’s Reid who answers. “Sex isn’t dating.”
“Either way,” Chris says, “I’ve got nothing for this commencement thing.”
“None of us do,” I tell him. “But you have plenty of time.”
“But do we actually need dates?” Reid asks.
“Wait.” Ed wags his finger back and forth between me and Reid. “I thought you two were going together?”
Reid stabs another forkful of salad. “We decided not to.”
“Why?” Ed looks understandably confused.
I have to be sending Reid a look that’s half threatening reminder and half panic, but he doesn’t look flustered at all.
“Because Millie is her own person and can find a date by herself. It was a dick move on my part to call dibs like she’s some sort of new toy.”
I give Reid a patronizing That’s right, you chauvinist smile, and he kicks me under the table.
Ed makes some kind of dismissive noise in the back of his throat. “It’s Millie. It’s not like you can offend her.”
I start to argue this but then realize he’s right. “Well, maybe I should have been more offended. But I only have one emotion, and it’s hunger.”
Chris, who has been noticeably silent, looks up from his coffee. “I’ve been thinking lately . . . what about a dating site?” He offers up the suggestion carefully, like he’s aiming a shot into a very distant, very small basket.
A dating site? I scrunch my nose. “Ew.”
Ed obviously agrees, because he’s the first to speak up. Good job, Ed. “You want these two to use a dating app?” he says, pointing a thumb between Reid and me.
Chris looks on, as confused as I am. “It’s how my sister met Ashley.”
“Reid and Mills are the oldest thirty-year-olds I know.”
Wow. Ed sucks.
“I’m twenty-nine,” I remind him.
“And you watch Murder, She Wrote every night, alone, in bed.”
I frown and throw a cherry tomato at his pouf of hair. “Because it’s a good show and my bed is hella comfortable.”
“And you still use the word ‘hella’—”
“Ed,” Reid says. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Being a dick. Something like forty million people use dating sites. It can’t be that complicated.”
Ed turns to us, his smile the expressive equivalent of a condescending pat on the head. “Why do you even know that kind of statistic? And, no, it’s not complicated, per se. It’s nuance. There’s an entire language involved in these sorts of things.”
“We have six degrees between the four of us.” Reid looks back down to his lunch. “I think we can keep up.”
Chris leans in toward Ed. “What kind of language?”
“Why do I already know this is going to be like teaching my mom to use the DVR?” He rubs a hand over his face. “Okay, for example, ‘thirst trap’ is someone posting intentionally sexy pics to get attention.”
I shake my head. “Isn’t that the point of a photo? To get attention?”
“Yeah, but this would be like, ‘Look at my new watch,’ but showing the watch just gave an excuse to zoom in on your boobs.”
Chris reaches for my notebook and pencil, flips to a new page, and prompts Ed to continue, ready to take notes. “Okay. What else?”
“Nerds,” I say. “We are nerds. And old. Ed, you’re right. My God, we are too young to be this old.”
Everyone ignores me. Ed leans back in his chair, eyes on the ceiling while he thinks. “Let’s see . . . ‘Ghosting’ is when someone you’re chatting with online just disappears. No reason or anything, just goes ghost. As opposed to a ‘slow fade,’ where they start to respond less and less over time.”
Chris is diligently jotting all this down.
“ ‘Benching’ is pretty self-explanatory,” Ed says. “They like you but keep you on the bench so they can continue playing the field. ‘DTR’ means to define the relationship, so ‘The Talk.’ ‘F2F’ means they want to meet. Oh, and if you do meet, a ‘half-night stand’ is when you hook up, and leave when the sex is over.”
Something inside me comes to a stop, and I work very, very hard to not look up at Reid. When I glance up, his eyes immediately dart away from my face.
None of us says anything. Chris is finishing his note taking. Reid and I are studiously not looking at each other. Ed is leaning in, excited now.
“Seriously, you guys want to do this?” he asks. “Like, Team Dating App?”
“Um,” I say. “No? But . . . maybe.” I glance at Reid. “If we must.”
“Okay. Well, if you’re all down, Tinder is pretty awesome,” Ed says.
Tinder? When would he have time? Ed is either in the lab or playing one of the half-dozen arcade games he owns. I try to imagine a scenario in which someone is expecting a hot hookup, and they open the door to find Ed standing there instead. Like I said, Ed is good-looking in his own way, he’s just . . . so Ed.
I guess he’s getting more action than I thought. The reality of this slaps me into awareness. Ed has game because he expects to.
“You use Tinder?” I ask.
Reaching across the table, he pulls a discarded tomato from my salad and pops it into his mouth. “Sometimes.”
“And?” I am suddenly dying to get the rundown on Ed’s Tinder booty calls.
“No,” Chris interjects, “No Tinders or Grindrs or any other hookup apps. We need dates, not sex.”
I don’t miss the way Reid’s eyes flicker my way.
Ed pulls out his phone, swiping through his apps before turning the screen to face us. “We use it to find matches. We meet them, hook up, have fun—whatever, and then we ask if they want to go to the banquet.”
“I love that the sex comes before the date,” Reid says dryly.
Ed nods sagely. “Sex is just the bonus.”
Chris’s chin comes to an amused landing in his cupped hand. “Boy, in what universe is sex with you a bonus?”
“I have an IQ of one hundred and forty-eight,” Ed says. “I’ll let you connect the dots.”
“Actually, being smart means you’re probably having less sex,” Reid tells him. “A 2007 study showed intelligence is negatively associated with sex frequency. In fact, only sixty-five percent of MIT graduates have even had sex.”
“Pull up the plane, Reid,” I say.
He laughs. “Okay, I guess what I’m saying is maybe Chris and Ed are right. Chris’s sister is happy. I know a few people who’ve met their significant other online. Hell, I know lots of people who’ve met some of their best friends online. Maybe a dating site isn’t the worst idea.”
I slide my notebook back and point him to my neatly arranged columns. “I have a whole list of maybes. I don’t need someone else to find me a date.”
Reid gently takes it from me. “I think ‘maybes’ might be a tad optimistic.”
“What if we don’t all find matches?” Chris asks. “Then what?”
“Whoever doesn’t have a date takes Millie,” Ed suggests.
My voice tears out in a playful screech: “Why are we assuming I’m also not finding a date?”
Just over Reid’s shoulder, I spot Avery Henderson waiting at the counter for her coffee and I stifle a whimper. Now a professor in the English department at UCSB, Avery was my little sister’s college roommate at the University of Washington and, quite frankly, has always been in better touch with Elly than I have. Avery picked up on this about nine months ago, too, when she realized I hadn’t heard that my sister was expecting twins, and since then, she loves to lord it over me when we run into each other at Saturday Pilates. But here, at lunch with my guys, I am unprepared for the ambush and try to duck into Reid’s shoulder, hoping she won’t see me.
Unfortunately, when the barista hands over her coffee, Avery catches my eye. I smell Reid’s shirt to make it look like that’s what I was doing all along.
“Can I help you with something?” Reid mumbles.
“I was—never mind, just be cool. Be cool.”
“Oh my God. Millie!” Avery shuffle-runs over to us. “I was going to call you this week to see how you’re doing.”
I smile up at her with as much easy calm as I can muster. “I’m doing well, how are you and Doug?”
She waves this away like I knew she might, indicating that she and Doug should be the least of my worries. Her voice drops. “I mean . . . with your dad.”
I lift my chin, mentally sweating under the weight of Reid, Chris, and Ed staring at me with loud questions in their expressions. “I’m good. We’re all great.”
Avery falters. “But Elly mentioned—”
Abruptly, I stand and give her an awkward hug. “I appreciate you asking,” I say. “I’ll tell Elly you said hi!”
“Yes, please!” Thankfully, she looks at her watch. “Oh man. I’d love to catch up more, but I have a deposition at two. You’ll call me with any news?”
“Of course!”
She shuffle-runs out with her coffee in hand and I take as much time as is reasonably possible to sit back down, lift my napkin, shake it out, and slide it back onto my lap.
“So.” I look around the silent table. “Where were we? Tinder no, but another app . . . maybe?”
Reid shakes his head. “What was that about? Something with your dad?”
I shift a little under the scrutiny of his gaze. “It’s nothing bad.” It’s terrible. “Just . . . parents getting older.”
Just fathers getting diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.
I uncap my water and take a long drink, trying to push the worry and sadness back into place, where they won’t bubble up easily.
Ed pulls out a sandwich he’s had tucked away . . . somewhere and takes a bite. “My mom had her gallbladder out last week and bitched at me for an hour last night on the phone because she can’t have McDonald’s anymore.”
I give a sympathetic wince, internally relieved that I might escape this grilling. “Yikes.”
But per usual, Reid is undeterred. “Wait, Mills. Is he sick?”
Here’s where I’m stuck.
I don’t share much about my family. I don’t do it in part because I don’t see them much, but also because my mom died when I was twelve and it sucked, and it’s made me really hate talking about things that suck.
But I also don’t lie, and I especially don’t lie to my friends. Threading the needle here, I tell them simply, “He hasn’t been feeling great, but he’ll be okay.” I hope my tone puts Reid’s antennae back down.
It seems to—he pushes his salad around his plate the way he does when he’s full but feels guilty about wasting food.
But nope, I’m wrong: “You know you can talk to us if something is going on,” he says.
I see the little press there, the emphasis on us when what he really means is You can talk to me, your supposed best friend.
Thankfully, Chris and Ed seem to have tuned us out, so I turn to Reid, lowering my voice. “If there was something to share, I’d share,” I assure him. “Avery is just dramatic. She likes to make a big deal out of little things.”
“But you make no deal about big things,” he argues.
“Everything’s fine.” I give him a little chuck on the chin.
“You’re really terrible about sharing personal shit. You know that, right?”
“So I’ve heard,” I say. It isn’t the first time he’s complained about this, but I’m not sure how to do better. There just isn’t much to say at this point—Dad has been diagnosed, is on medication, and we’re handling it. Or, rather, my sister is handling it, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to be supportive from a distance. Talking about it with my friends when none of us have any control over it would just stress me out and make me feel more helpless.
Ed looks at his phone. “I have some cells I need to sort, so I should get back soon. Are we doing this? The dating app? Are we all in?”
Three sets of eyes swing in my direction, and I groan.
“Let’s check a few out,” Chris says. “We’ll find the best one out there and put as little or as much info as you want.”
“And you can quit anytime,” Reid adds with a hopeful lean to his words.
I’m positive I’m not ready for this, but I am unwilling to be the wet blanket. “Fine,” I say, “but the first dick pic I get is going to be each of your phone backgrounds for a week.”
Ed shrugs. “I can live with that.”
Christopher Hill
So, turns out there are approximately one MILLION of these dating sites.
Reid Campbell
I found one for Western men who want to connect with women from Russia. In case that strikes anyone’s fancy . . .
Millie Morris
Omg this one is called Bernie Singles and is designed for users who like Bernie Sanders. What even.
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
There are people out there who want to date someone who looks like Bernie Sanders??? FE-TISH
Millie Morris
Wait for it . . .
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Oh wait. Ignore me. I get it.
Reid Campbell
Are you sure your IQ was 148 and not just 48?
Alex Ramirez
I’m still trying to figure out why I’m involved in this
Millie Morris
That’ll teach you to miss a lunch again
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Dude, Gluten Free Singles, Mullet Passions, 420 Singles. Actually, let me bookmark that one for later.
Millie Morris
These names: Equestrian Singles. Marry Me Already. Date My Pet.
Millie Morris
Ooh, Chris: Rooster Mate
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
GOOD ONE, MILLS
Christopher Hill
. . .
Reid Campbell
Children. Can we stay on task?
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Are we sure we don’t just want Tinder? Users make 1 billion swipes a day for a reason.
Millie Morris
1 BILLION??
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
If it ain’t broke . . .
Reid Campbell
Hey what about this one? It’s called IRL. In Real Life? That’s clever. It’s a premium site so we’d have to pay, but we can filter our browsing preferences, see when someone’s viewed your profile and read or deleted messages, and men can read summary profiles and read/reply to contacts, but not make repeated contact or send photos until they’re accepted.
Christopher Hill
Sounds efficient.
Reid Campbell
That’s pretty great, right, Mills? No creepsters or unsolicited dick pics?
Alex Ramirez
Why would she ever solicit a dick pic when she has the three of us?
Millie Morris
I’m looking.
Millie Morris
I’ll admit tit doesn’t look completely terrible.
Millie Morris
GDI *it. Why do I always do that
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Because you have tiny hobbit hands?
Millie Morris
I’d call you a douchebag, Ed, but that would imply you could actually get near a vagina.
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Savage.
Reid Campbell
So do we all agree?
Millie Morris
Sigh. I guess so
Reid Campbell
Yessss. Everyone registers and we’ll meet at Millie’s tonight to fill it all out. Go team
Alex Ramirez
HIGH FIVE
Christopher Hill
HIGH FIVE
Millie Morris
limp high five
Reid shows up around six, Thai food under one arm, a laptop under the other. The wine is noticeably absent. Thank God.
“Where is everyone else?” I take the bag from him and carry it into the kitchen.
“Ed had some samples fail and needed to redo them. Alex might be over later, but I’ll be honest, his interest in joining another dating site is flaccid at best.”
“That’s because Tinder clearly already works for him,” I agree.
“Right. And Chris had a student emergency, which is sort of great because it means I could get that hot chicken he hates.”
He follows me into the kitchen, pulling out plates and silverware while I open up the containers. He moves around my kitchen with the same comfort he had at Chris’s, handing me a glass just as I’ve raised my arm to reach for it, and we’re stepping around each other like we do it every day. The silence is easy. We fill our plates with drunken noodles, chicken, and curried vegetables. I fill each of us a glass of water from the tap, avoiding the cans of sparkling in the fridge entirely—too soon—and we carry it all into the dining room.
With food and laptops ready to go, we both create new IRL accounts, and after we confirm our email addresses, a pretty thorough questionnaire awaits. Most of the questions are easy enough: Name, age, job, the age range and location of match I’m seeking, a brief rundown of my appearance, and whether I have or want to have kids.
But the others are a little more in depth, and by the time I’ve gotten to favorite things, and the About Me and what I’m looking for out of life, I’m beginning to zone out. I’ve always been better at pulling details out of other people than I am at examining my own.
Next to me, Reid doesn’t seem to be having any problems, and his fingers fly over the keyboard, the keys making an audible click each time one is depressed.
“It occurs to me,” Reid says, finishing off the last of his noodles, “that this is an excellent way to get to know each other.”
I look at him over the top of my glass. “You’ve known me for over two years.”
“Yes, but you know how you can talk to someone almost every day and still not know some of the most mundane things about them?” He glances down at his screen. “Like number four: your favorite place. What is your favorite place? If I had to guess, I’d say Cajé, but only because you’re there for coffee at least twice a day.”
I hum. “I do like my coffee.”
“I know you take it black, even though your sugary cocktail preference would give me at least three cavities. You’ll read anything you can get your hands on but have a dog-eared collection of Agatha Christie in your end table, and a bunch of Sherlock fanfiction saved on your phone. You know almost every detail about my hometown and family, but I know next to nothing about where you grew up or whether you used to fight with your sister, when you had your first kiss.” He tilts his head and watches me in a way that tiptoes the line that separates adoring and scrutinizing. “You’re a mystery, Millie Morris.”
“I grew up in Seattle—which you already knew. My dad and sister, Elly, still live there. Elly is married, she just had twins, and she used to call me Green Gables because my hair was more red back then.”
“And your mom died when you were twelve.”
I keep my eyes on the screen in front of me, trying to suppress the mild feeling of dread I get whenever this subject comes up. It isn’t Reid’s fault. It’s just . . . I’m fine. And whenever someone wants to talk about it, they seem disappointed that I’m not more emotional about it. “Uterine cancer.”
Reid reaches across the table and gives my hand a squeeze. “That must have been so hard. I’m trying to imagine little Millie back then.” I can feel him waiting for me to elaborate; he’s not pushy—he does it in the gentle, unobtrusive way he always has.
At Reid’s place, there are framed photos of his parents and his sister, Rayme, and even pictures of himself at various ages. Of course, his parents also have pictures of Reid and Rayme from infancy to present day all over their house. Seeing Reid at every age makes it easier to feel like I really know him—I know what he looked like as a chubby toddler, as a toothless second-grader, as a goobery preteen, and as a seventeen-year-old who still only felt his awkwardness and none of his beauty.
So I understand his desire to see deeper into who I am by knowing my past—I do—it’s just that it isn’t ever a pleasant experience for me to revisit being a kid. The urge to change the subject feels like a balloon filling, pressing against the underside of my breastbone. Standing, I move to the sink, turning on the tap and waiting for the water to run cold so I can refill my glass.
“My dad was really great after Mom died, though. We were lucky.” I spill some water on the counter because I feel so awkward and spastic about what I’m saying. It isn’t false, per se—Dad wasn’t abusive or mean or absent—he just wasn’t Mom. And that was never his fault, even if it is his greatest failure.
“And favorite place,” I say, feeling the tension ease in my chest at the subject pivot. “Hmm. There has to be somewhere better than Cajé, though they do have great coffee.”
“But, like, places to visit?”
“I love the Artist Paintpots in Yellowstone,” I tell him, continuing to uncoil.
“Are they like hot springs?”
“Sort of, but with mud.” I sit back down in front of my laptop. “You walk on little boardwalks that are suspended a few inches above the ground, where you can see these gurgling little pools of mud and water. The color depends on how much sulfur is in the ground, and I think it changes depending on the time of year and the weather, but it’s amazing. It feels almost prehistoric in a way. We used to go every summer when I was little.”
On the outside Reid is totally cool—nodding and following along while I speak—but I know him well enough to understand that he’s cataloging this scrap of information and slotting it into the gap in his Millie Bank where most of my pre–Santa Barbara history remains blank to him.
“What about yours?” I ask. “Your parents’ vineyard?”
Reid leans back in his chair and scratches his chin—the questionnaire forgotten for now. And I love this about him—how his love for connecting with people makes him the easiest person to hang out with. I wish I were more like him in this way. “Maybe,” he muses. “Or the drive to San Gregorio? It’s hilly, and full of redwoods. Totally gorgeous—and even better if you can do it on a bike.”
“Who did you do that with?”
“Friends in grad school, mostly. Chris and I did it once, and Dad met us on the beach with sandwiches and contraband beer.”
“Is that when Chris and your father fell in love?” Chris and James Campbell have a famous bromance that makes Ed and Alex sick with jealousy.
Reid laughs. “Probably.” But then he blinks, and grins at me like he sees through my deflection. “Next question,” he says, lifting his chin to me. “First kiss.”
“Hmm.” I stand, gathering our plates and carrying them back to the kitchen. I feel Reid’s attention on my back the entire way, and want to rub a hand down my neck or call him on his intense stare, but that might lead to him asking why it makes me uncomfortable, and what would I say? It makes me uncomfortable to talk about myself because I’ve always been either tragic or boring? Or maybe, It makes me uncomfortable to talk about myself with you watching me, because I still remember the way you looked down at me in my bed and I shouldn’t be thinking about you like that anymore?
“I was fourteen,” I tell him. “I had this weird worry about our noses hitting, so I just opened my mouth and spun my tongue around a few times. His name was Tim Chen and he looked a little confused when we pulled away but didn’t complain.” I grin over my shoulder. “I assure you I’m a much better kisser now.”
“Oh, I know,” Reid says with a hoarse laugh, and then seems to realize what he’s said as soon as I do. “Shit, there it is.” We go silent and he adds, “I made it weird.”
My laugh is a sharp, awkward bark into the room.
“Okay, no, that noise made it weird,” he says, rounding the counter and moving to stand next to me. “What was that?”
“A laugh?”
He sets his empty glass in the tray and when I look over I notice his lashes, and the feathery shadows they leave on his cheekbones. I’ve never really noticed things like eyelashes on Reid before, but now I’m remembering the way they looked with his eyes closed tight, head thrown back and the muscles of his throat straining.
I shut off the water. This tension is exactly the kind of thing the Morning After/Are We Okay? cupcake was meant to eradicate—it was supposed to provide sexual closure.
Get it together, Millie.
“We’re always pretty weird,” I say, using my metaphorical broom to gather all sexy thoughts and sweep them under the metaphorical rug. “The sex just made us weirder.”
“Our half-night stand?” he asks, and his smile is an adorable concoction of self-deprecating and sweet.
I shake my head. Must resist the cute nerd. “Stop. You can’t pull off internet lingo.”
“Come on,” he says, laughing, “you guys act like I’m my dad’s age. I’m thirty-one! I am the internet.”
Reid sidles up beside me, reaching back and gripping the edge of the counter. I swear my pulse rockets forward when I catch the scent of his soap. I’m not sure I’ve ever thought about sex this much—even when I’ve been in actual sexual relationships with other people.
“And I’m glad things aren’t actually weird between us,” he says.
I manage an easy smile of agreement.
Nope.
Not weird.
Not even a little.
He lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. “It’s different, but not weird. I didn’t mean to bring it up again, though.”
I reach out, booping his nose with my index finger. “Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll say something way more awkward the next time I make us something with eggplant.”
“You said eggplant, not baby carrot. I’m not going to complain.”
“Oooo-kaaaaay.” I dry my hands and walk back into the dining room. “How about we finish these on our own and call it a night?”
Read: How about if you stop being cute and leave me to my vibrator?
Reid is obviously pleased with himself. “Too far? How about cucumber? No? White asparagus?”
I close his laptop and place it in his hands. “Good night, Reid. Thanks for feeding me. If you didn’t bring dinner I would have been left to gnaw on a rind of old cheese.”
“You are the frattiest woman I have ever met,” he says.
“It’s Manchego. I defy you to find a frat house with Manchego.”
“You know I love you,” he says, smile straightening as we near the door. My heart clenches a little at the sincerity in his voice. Reid is so good. I could never risk screwing this up over something as trivial as sex.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
“Then you know there’s nothing wrong with the two of us making jokes about what happened. Maybe it’ll even bring us closer.”
“Maybe.” I tap his computer. “But if our goal is to meet other people, you need to finish this tonight and send it to me in the morning for approval.”
He looks down at me with a goofy smile. Reid Campbell really is fucking cute. “Yes, ma’am.”
I open the door and push him out. “And make sure the guys do it, too. I’m looking forward to judging you all.”
“As you wish,” he calls out. When he disappears out the front gate, I am free to disappear into my bedroom.
