: Chapter 11

“I mean”—he pauses as if feeling stupid—“I just thought . . . I thought you might be cold on the walk home.”

I stare at the cardigan in his outstretched hand.

So thoughtful. Damn it, I’ve been hating him all day, and now he goes and does something sweet. “Thanks.” I take it from him and put it on. “You didn’t need to come and collect me.”

“It’s sketchy here,” he replies as he walks along beside me. We fall silent, and there’s an awkwardness between us that isn’t usually there. Christopher and I are a lot of things; uncomfortable with each other has never been one of them.

“Do you want to go and get a drink or perhaps some dinner?” he asks.

I am hungry. “Sure.”

We walk along until we find a little bar and restaurant. “Table for two, please?” he asks the waiter.

The waiter looks around. “We only have the bench seat by the window.”

I glance over to the bifold windows he gestures to. There is a high counter that faces out onto the street. Christopher looks over to me for approval.

I nod. “That sounds great.” We take a seat. “Thanks.”

“Can I get you anything to drink?”

I quickly pick up the drink menu. Damn it. If I’m going to lie to someone’s face, I at least need a good drink to do it to. “I’ll have a margarita, please.”

“Do you have Patrón tequila?” Christopher asks.

“Yes.”

“Then make that two.”

“It is cool tonight.” I wrap my cardigan around me. “Thanks for bringing my cardigan.”

He smiles. “That’s okay.”

“How did your job go?” I ask.

“Oh, that . . .” He rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t call it a job. More like a torture chamber.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Well.” He twists his lips as if trying to find the right words. “I had to put on a suit that smelled so bad it was inhumane, not to mention hotter than Satan’s asshole, and then I got punched in the junk so hard that one of my balls is still lodged in my esophagus.”

My eyes widen. “Are you for real?”

“Deadly.” He shrugs. “Being Binky Bear was definitely not one of my greatest moments.”

I burst out laughing. “You were Binky Bear?”

“The best they ever had.”

“I don’t understand. Who punched you?”

“Some prick of a kid. Don’t worry, I took care of him . . . and then . . . got fired for it.”

“I can’t imagine why.” I get the giggles as I imagine him being accosted by a four-year-old. “You got fired?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You needed the money, and what about poor Eddie? He got you that job.”

“I feel like shit, in hindsight.”

“You should have stuck it out . . . for him.”

His shoulders slump. “I know.”

“When you have no money, any job will do.”

“I know.” He exhales. “I’ll stick it out next time, but seriously, it wasn’t a job, it was an assault.”

I giggle as I imagine it. “I wish I was there to see it.”

He smirks. His pointer is steepled up along his temple as he stares at me, and the way he is looking at me, it’s crystal clear that he has an agenda.

“What?” I ask.

“Are we going to talk about this morning?”

I act casual. “What about it?”

“You were angry with me.”

“Your drinks.” The waiter puts our two drinks in front of us.

“Thank you,” we reply.

Play it cool.

“No, I wasn’t,” I lie.

He frowns.

“I was just tired and grumpy.”

“You don’t get grumpy with me.”

“Then why do you call me Grumps?”

His eyebrows flick up as if he’s unimpressed.

“Just saying.”

He takes a sip of his margarita. “Not bad.” He rolls his lips to taste the salt, and we fall silent. “I didn’t sleep with her.”

Fuck . . . he knows.

I widen my eyes. “Don’t care if you did.”

“Really?” His sexy eyes hold mine.

“What are you doing?” I snap.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like you’re goading me for something . . . what do you want?”

“Answers.”

“Answers to what?”

“What’s going on here,” he says.

I act dumb. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Bernadette told me that you like me.”

Fucking Bernadette.

“I don’t know where she got that from,” I lie.

“So you don’t like me . . . ?” His face rests on his hand, so sexually casual, as if he has this conversation every day.

“I do like you, Christopher, but you are not the kind of man I would want to be with, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

“Why not?”

I stare at him while I think for a moment. “You’re not my type.”

“I’m everyone’s type.”

I smile. “And there it is.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not looking for everyone’s type.”

“That came out wrong.” He rolls his lips as if annoyed with himself. “Poor choice of words. I mean, how am I not your type? Explain it to me.”

“Look . . .” I pause as I try to get my wording right. “You are Mr. Fun, Mr. Make Everyone Relaxed, and Mr. Looking for a Good Time. Mr. Into Appearances and Being Popular, and although we get on exceptionally well—”

He cuts me off. “Get to the point.”

“You just don’t . . .” I shrug.

“Don’t what?”

“You just don’t have the emotional intelligence I’m looking for.”

He stares at me as if dumbfounded. Keep going . . . , I coach myself.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he snaps, annoyed.

I put it back on him. “Why are you asking me this? Are you declaring that you like me, or are you just trying to fish me out to see what’s in my head?”

He stays silent.

“Because an emotionally intelligent man would tell me how he feels, not find out what I’m thinking to weigh up his options.”

He sits back, affronted.

“I am not the kind of girl you normally go for, Christopher. Admit it.”

“I’ll admit it freely. You’re not.”

“And you are not ready to stop having sex with other people. Maybe you never will be. Maybe monogamy isn’t in your future.”

He twists his lips, and I know that I’m right.

Damn it, I hate that I am.

His eyes hold mine. “I could try.”

I frown. “Try what?”

“Not to sleep with anyone else . . .” He shrugs. “We could see how it goes.”

Not exactly a romantic declaration of love. I smile sadly. “Wow.”

“What?”

“Having a man tell me that he can try not to sleep around to see how it goes . . . is not enough to ruin a friendship for me.”

His eyes hold mine. “You want the fairy tale?”

“I deserve the fairy tale.”

His eyes drop to his drink, and he nods. “You’re right, you do.”

We fall silent as we both get lost in our own thoughts.

“One day you’re going to meet a woman, and you will know for certain that she is the one you want to be with.”

His haunted eyes rise to meet mine. “What if I don’t? What if I’m so fucked up that I miss all the signs?”

“Then you will live happily in bachelor land. Probably have a couple of kids to a few different women and then grow old with the children you see every second weekend.”

He frowns as if shocked by my prediction.

“I don’t want that,” he whispers.

I take his hand over the table. “I can’t help you with this, baby.”

“But we get on so well,” he whispers.

“We do.” I squeeze his hand in mine. “And I will be your friend to the very end, but I want to wait for Prince Charming.” I smile hopefully. “He’s coming for me, I know it.”

He stares at me. “How will you know? How will you know when you’ve met him?”

I already know.

“Because he won’t have to try to not sleep with anyone else . . . he will love me so much that the thought of sleeping with another would turn his stomach. Because that’s what love is. Putting another person above all else. Giving yourself over to them completely. Trusting your heart with the woman you love.”

I see the confusion rolling around in his eyes. He can’t even comprehend what I’m explaining.

“I have faith it will happen for you one day.” I sip my drink with a smile.

He exhales heavily. “I wish I shared the same optimism.”

“And for the record, for future attempts, telling a woman that you can try not to sleep around is probably the most unromantic thing I have ever heard.”

He gives me a beautiful broad smile, and I know it’s going to be okay between us. “I thought it was pretty good, actually.”

I laugh. “You idiot.”

“I can’t believe you’re knocking me back, Grumps.” He frowns. “I’m a catch, you know?”

“I know. Crazy, huh?”

“So where do we go from here?” he asks.

“We keep being friends, and you practice how to fall in love with someone.”

A trace of a frown crosses his face. “How do I do that?”

“You let your guard down.”

“I don’t—”

I cut him off. “I know. It isn’t an easy thing to do.”

He sits with his head resting on his hand, his elbow on the table. “Why did you break up with your boyfriend?”

“He tried not to sleep with someone else . . . and failed.”

His eyes hold mine.

“Broke my fucking heart in the process.”

“It wasn’t about you,” he says softly.

“I know.” I sip my drink as the memory of how hard my heart broke sinks back into my bones.

We fall silent again, and a thought comes to my mind. “Why did you come on this trip?”

He shrugs. “Lots of reasons.”

“What was the main one?”

“To try and find out who I was.”

“And what have you discovered?”

Holding the stem of his glass, he spins it where it sits on the table, his eyes focused on it. “I don’t always like who I am.”

“Like when?”

“Like now.”

My heart sinks. He knows . . . he knows what I want, and he knows he can’t give it to me.

My affection is one sided, just like I thought it was.

Ouch . . .

I pushed for a definite answer to where we stand, and I got it.

Move on.

“I’m tired.” I fake a smile. “Let’s get going.”

CHRISTOPHER

The walk back to the hostel is made in silence. Hayden’s arm is linked through mine, and we are walking along like we always do . . . except I’m not in comfortable silence like normal with her. There are a million questions running through my head at the speed of light.

You just don’t have the emotional intelligence that I’m looking for.

Everyone keeps telling me that I don’t have emotional intelligence, but why?

What is the point that I’m clearly missing?

What the fuck does an emotionally intelligent man do? Because I literally have no idea what I’m doing wrong here.

We get to the hostel, and as she goes to walk up the stairs, I pull her back and turn her toward me. “Hayden . . . wait.”

“What?”

I swallow a nervous lump in my throat. “I know I’m not the romantic kind of guy you want.”

Her eyes hold mine.

“But can you do something for me?”

“What?”

“Kiss me goodbye.”

“Chris . . .”

“Just once.”

I need to know.

“That’s all I’m asking, and then we’ll just be friends, and everything will return to normal.”

She goes to say something, and I cut her off as I kiss her softly. She tastes sweet and . . .

Delicious.

I slide my arms around her and kiss her properly this time, my tongue sliding between her parted lips. She kisses me back, and unexpected goose bumps scatter up my arms.

My cock begins to thump.

Oh . . .

Her body fits perfectly up against mine, and we kiss again. She’s measured, slow, and seductive . . . not at all what I was expecting. My eyes flutter closed.

What the fuck is this?

She jerks out of the kiss and steps back from me. Her eyes hold mine. “Goodbye, Christopher.”

She turns and bounces up the stairs and disappears into the building. I watch her, shocked, aroused, and confused.

Hmm . . . interesting.

I look down at the erection tenting my pants. “What are you fucking looking at?” I whisper angrily at him. I drag my hands through my hair in disgust. “Forget it. You can’t have her.”

I lie propped on my elbow and stare over at the seductress in her pure little pink pajamas, and under the covers she looks comfortable and relaxed.

Completely fuckable.

Hayden Whitmore.

Has there ever been a more annoying, infuriating temptation in the history of life?

I don’t think so.

It’s been a week since she casually kissed me, a week of imagining bending her over, a week of wanking in the shower until I nearly draw blood. And a very long week of following her around like a fucking puppy.

Not that she’d notice. She’s completely self-absorbed and most definitely not into me.

I think if I was on fire, she wouldn’t even notice, which is ironic because it feels like my dick actually is.

Everyone is out at the beach, and we are alone in our room.

She glances over. “How’s the book going?”

I curl my lip in disdain. I glance at the title:

EMOTIONAL INTELLIGENCE

“It’s okay, I guess.”

This book is a load of fucking baloney. The person who wrote this is not emotionally intelligent; they’re just plain fucking stupid.

“What made you buy that book?” she asks.

I fake a smile. I wonder.

She smirks knowingly and goes back to her book. “I like that you’re reading that.”

Shut. Up.

“I’m going to go out tonight,” I say to her.

“Okay.” She turns the page in her book, her eyes glued to the text.

“You going to come?” I ask.

“Hmm.” She scrunches up her nose. “Probably not.”

I frown. “Why? What are you doing?”

“I met some people downstairs last night. They’ve asked me to go to dinner with them.”

I narrow my eyes. “What people?”

I’m on high alert. Some romantic fucker is going to swoop in and steal her off me with pretty words and promises . . . wedding rings.

Not that I have her . . . but still.

“Some guys,” she mutters, uninterested.

“What guys?”

“The ones from Holland.”

Blond fuckers . . . ugh, my blood boils. She likes blonds.

“Suit yourself,” I snap.

She nods as she keeps reading, totally unaffected.

“Why don’t you come over here? I’ll cuddle your back while you read.”

“I’m good.” She rolls over and puts her back to me.

I know you’re fucking good. Good at being a prick-teasing asshole.

With no shame at all, I get up and climb into her bed. I’m allowed to spoon in bed with her; it’s something we’ve always done.

Only now I know how it ends.

I lie with her in my arms and imagine a million ways I could fuck her; I get turned on; she keeps reading her book—god only knows what’s so interesting in it—then I go to the shower and pull my dick alone.

I put my arm around her from behind and pull her close. I inhale her scent and smile into her hair as the world disappears.

She has this calming effect on me. As soon as she’s in my arms, all is well in the world.

She keeps reading . . . and reading . . . and reading.

Does she even know I’m here?

“What could possibly be so interesting in that stupid book?” I huff.

“Everything,” she murmurs, distracted. “I’m just getting to the good bit.”

“I don’t . . .”

“Shh.”

“Did you just shush me?”

“I did, baby. Go to sleep.”

“You’re infuriating, you know that?”

“Shh.”

“I mean . . .”

“Christopher,” she snaps. “I’m reading. If you are not going to sleep, go back to your own bed.”

“A lot of women would die to have me in their bed, you know?” I huff.

“Why don’t you go and see where they are, then?” she mutters as she turns the page.

“I’m going out,” I warn.

“Okay.”

Fucking woman has me bent over a barrel, and she knows it.

“I’m going out to meet women,” I warn again.

“Okay.” She kisses my arm. “Have fun.”

Screw this . . . I am going out to meet women, and I am having sex tonight.

No more Hayden Whitmore puppy patrol.

I sit up.

“If you are going to the locker, can you get my white dress out?” she says.

I narrow my eyes. I know that white dress . . . the one that makes me hard as a rock on sight.

“No, you’re not wearing that out without me.”

“Why not?”

“Because we don’t know those fuckers?”

“What fuckers?”

“The ones from Holland,” I snap. “Who knows what kind of perverts they might be.”

“Oh . . .” She keeps reading.

I climb out of bed. “Is Bernadette or Kimberly going with you?”

“I haven’t asked them.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t need a bodyguard, Christopher.”

“In that dress, I disagree.”

She turns her head. “Are you going to cuddle my back and go to sleep or keep mouthing off?”

“I’ll give you mouthing off.” I pull her into my arms aggressively from behind. “Why don’t we fuck?” I suggest.

“Be still, my heart,” she whispers as she reads. “If you’re horny, just go and find a girl to play with. You’re getting annoying.”

“You would rather read a book than . . .” I press my lips together because words fail me right now.

“Yes,” she snaps. “I would, actually.”

“I have needs, Grumps.”

“Then go and meet them. We are not fucking, Christopher. Not now, not ever. Stop suggesting it. You’re beginning to piss me off.”

Right. That’s it. I don’t need to stay here and cop this abuse. I get out of bed in a huff. “I am going out.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t come looking for me.”

“I won’t.”

I stare at her as I begin to fume.

She really doesn’t want me.

How?

I march outside and go to my locker in a huff. I get my things out to wear tonight.

Screw this.

I’m not coming on to her again . . . ever again!

I’m done being her puppy.

I go through her bag and retrieve her white dress, and I stuff it into the bottom of my bag. She’ll never find it here. This dress is for my eyes only.

I’m done with Hayden Whitmore.

Two weeks later

HAYDEN

“Happy birthday, baby,” Christopher’s soft voice whispers.

I drag my eyes open to see a white box with a red ribbon sitting in prime position on my pillow. “Huh?” I frown. “You bought me a present?”

He kisses my cheek from behind me. “Of course I bought you a present. It’s your birthday.”

“But we have no money.” I frown as I sit up in bed.

“I would sell my left nut for you.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” I giggle as I pick up the precious gift and shake it at my ear. “You might need that one day.”

He chuckles too. “Open it.”

I slowly unwrap the present as he watches. It’s a necklace. A fine chain and a silver disk. I smile. “It’s perfect.”

He turns it over in the box. “It’s engraved.”

I read the words:

GHW

ALWAYS

C

My eyes flick up to him. “GHW? What’s that?”

“Grumpy Hayden Whitmore.” He pulls me closer into his body and hugs me tight.

I giggle. “Or Gorgeous Hayden Whitmore.”

“Goofy Hayden Whitmore.” He pokes me in the ribs.

I laugh as I pull it out of the box. “I love it.” I hold it out. “Can you put it on me?” We sit up, and he carefully pulls my hair around my neck and puts it on me. I hold it as it sits on my chest. “Christopher, this is so special.” It is truly special. I know he can’t afford it.

He gives me a beautiful broad smile. “Only the best for my girl.”

His girl.

We stare at each other as the air swirls between us.

“You shouldn’t have spent your money on me.” I smile.

“It’s okay.” He shrugs. “I didn’t need that nut.” He hugs me tighter. “I have a full day planned for us, starting with birthday cake for breakfast. Then we are going swimming and having a picnic, followed by dancing our way around town tonight.”

I smile, excited. We always have so much fun together. “I can’t wait.”

My phone rings on the side table, and the name lights up the screen.

Regi

What?

My ex-boyfriend. What the hell is he calling me on my birthday for?

“You going to get that?” Christopher asks.

I think for a moment. Why would I want to talk to him when I have everything that makes me happy right here? I don’t feel inadequate or insecure or any of the things that Regi makes me feel.

I stare at Christopher as a new realization sets in.

I’m over Regi. I’m finally over him.

When did that happen?

“No.” I smile over at my beautiful, reliable friend, the man who’s never lied to me. The man who cares for me, day in and day out.

“No, I’m not.” I sit up in a rush. “Let’s go eat that birthday cake.”

He spins me out, and to the sound of his laughter, I twirl, and then he slams me back up against his body.

Dancing with Christopher Miles will never get old. We’re dancing our way around the world.

Christopher loves dancing, and I, I am his forever-faithful dance partner.

He spins me again and then pulls me back to him with force, and when I’m in his arms like this and listening to him sing to me, nothing else seems to matter.

“I have a request,” the DJ calls from his podium as everyone falls silent to listen.

“This song is for a Grumpy Whitmore,” he calls.

Christopher’s mouth falls open as he fakes shocked horror, and I goofily smile up at him.

The DJ holds a card out as he reads the written message. “It says here that the song is from the sexiest man alive.”

I laugh out loud.

Christopher holds his hands out as if on a stage and takes a bow, and everyone laughs, realizing it’s him.

The song comes on, “Halo,” by Beyoncé, and I smile up at my heavenly dance partner as he takes me into his arms. “This is your song, Grumps.”

“How is it my song?”

“Because you have a halo.” He kisses my temple as he holds me close. “My angel.”

“It’s you that has the halo, my darling,” I whisper.

“You’re right, I do. We should totally fuck to this song.” He spins me hard, and I laugh out loud.

“You’re ruining it.”

He smiles down at me as we dance, and a strange feeling comes over me . . . warmth and belonging and, for the first time in my life, safety. We stare at each other as the words roll over us.

Maybe we really should fuck to this song.

Six weeks later

I glance at my watch. An hour until I get to see him.

Weekends go so slow.

How can you miss someone so much when you saw them just this morning? It doesn’t make any sense, not even to me.

Christopher, Basil, and I return to Barcelona every weekend so that we can work.

We all have great jobs here and get nearly a full-time wage for just two twelve-hour days. It’s well worth the trip back, plus there’s the fact that Christopher secretly wants to stay near Eddie. He can’t bear to leave him just yet. The rest of the gang are in Portugal, and we’ll meet up with them again on Monday.

We’ve been all over: Germany, Italy, Switzerland, and now Portugal. The world is a beautiful place . . . even more beautiful with him by my side.

Christopher and I have a weird thing going on. When he first tried to kiss me in the ocean and I rejected him, he pulled back. A week later, we had it out, and he told me he was incapable of the kind of relationship I wanted.

Then we kissed, and I knew in that instant that I wanted more.

He tried to pursue it for not even a week and then gave up, just like I knew he would.

We fell back into the friend zone for a couple of months . . . but then he came back to me.

And something changed.

I can’t put my finger on exactly what that is or what it means, because technically we’re still just friends and nothing has ever happened between us.

But it’s different.

All I know is that when I’m with him, nothing else matters.

Which makes life pretty good at the moment, because we’re together all the time.

I finish my shift and clean up until finally it’s knockoff time. “Bye. Have a great week, everyone,” I call as I head off.

I walk to the corner, and there in the shadows I see him, standing silently in the dark as he waits for me.

My cardigan in his hand.

My heart constricts because in his mind he doesn’t know how to be romantic.

If only he knew . . .

Saw in himself what I see in him.

It’s all there, deep inside . . . just waiting to be let out.

“Hi.” I smile.

His big eyes hold mine. “Hey, baby,” he whispers as he pulls me in for a hug.

We stand in each other’s arms as if we haven’t seen each other for a month. I want to blurt out that I missed him today . . . but I won’t.

Because that’s not the game we’re playing.

“How was your day?” he asks as we begin to walk. He takes my hand in his and kisses my fingertips.

“Long . . . hellish.” I sigh.

“How’s your tummy? I was worried when you were ill this morning.”

I poke him in the ribs. “Did you ever think you would ever be worried about period pain?” I tease.

He chuckles. “Definitely not.”

“Are the pharmacies still open?” I hold my aching tummy. “I need to find a heat pack somewhere.”

“Is it still hurting?” He frowns.

“I’ve just had some paracetamol. It will be fine in a little while.”

We go to a few pharmacies, and they’re all closed.

“I’ll be fine. The pills are working already. Let’s just go home.”

“You sure?” he asks.

I smile. Who knew that my player friend would be so caring? Underneath all that popular bullshit, he’s an absolute sweetheart.

We get back to the hostel and into our room. Basil is working tonight and won’t be home until late.

“You heading out?” I ask.

“No.” He frowns. “Unless . . . do you want to go out?”

“No, I’m going to take a shower and go to bed.”

“Sounds good to me.”

We head into the bathroom and take showers. I get dressed in my pajamas and head into the room.

Christopher is already in my bed, and my stomach does a little flip.

We’ve been sleeping together lately, tangled together beneath the sheets. Our bodies snug up against each other.

And I feel so close to him that . . . I can’t explain it. It’s a weird situation.

I climb in beside him, and he rolls onto his side. “I found a heat pack.”

“Did you? Where?”

He puts his large hand over my lower stomach. “How’s this?” he whispers.

We stare at each other in the darkness, electricity crackling between us.

“Better,” I breathe.

This is the first time we’ve been alone in our room. Usually there are four other people with us, all chatting and laughing.

Tonight, it’s different.

There’s something in the air . . . something more.

His face is millimeters from my face, his big warm hand protective over my stomach, and a sense of belonging pours over me.

“What are you doing here with me?” I whisper. “You should be out chasing girls.”

“You’re my only girl,” he whispers.

We stare at each other.

And I desperately want to believe him . . . but I don’t know if I’m brave enough to let myself go there. But I want to . . .

“Chris . . .”

He leans down and kisses me. Softly . . . tenderly.

Perfectly.