Page 14 of The Trouble with Flings

The green-eyed monster perched on my shoulder digs its claws in.

Me: Great. I’ll pick you up at 7 for dinner. We’ll meet them afterward.

Those three infuriating dots dance across the screen, then stop. I stare at the screen like I have the ability to make a message appear and quickly realize how ridiculous that is.

An excited emoji pops up.

The tightness in my chest loosens a little. This jealousy shit is for the birds.

Jennifer: I would have invited you to the casino, but I figured you probably had a prior commitment.

Touché, wild girl.

Me: Wear something slinky. I want to see those sexy legs.

Chapter Five

Jennifer

I wondered if Fitz would act jealous after our earlier texts. After all, I sent him pictures of me with the guys I met while snorkeling to get him back for leaving me when I was wet and willing last night. Plus, it’s fun to rile him up. But then there he was, standing at my door in a black polo shirt that hugged his broad shoulders and put those sexy muscular arms on display, holding a gorgeous bouquet of wildflowers and looking at me like he’d never seen anyone so enticing.

I can’t remember the last time a man other than Jace brought me flowers. And that look Fitz gave me? Let’s just say, nobody has ever nailed that devastating mix of appreciation and desire as well as he does.

Not even close.

We enjoyed a delicious candlelight dinner at a beachfront restaurant. As the sun melted into the horizon, he asked about my day and was genuinely interested in my answers. I was relieved that he didn’t ask annoying questions about the guys I spent time with or act overly possessive. Though I have to admit his claiming text about my cave sent a tingle of appreciation through me. Not that I want to be claimed. I definitely don’t.

But it feels good knowing I affect him in the same ways he gets to me.

That’s what I’m thinking about as we head into the casino, his hand warm on the back of my favorite soft pink halter dress. Last night I’d dressed in a way that I thought would taunt him and allow me to remain in control. Now that I know I hadn’t imagined Fitz’s power to strip me of all my defenses last summer, why not wear a dress that makes us both want him to? The deep neckline, ruching at the waist, and short skirt leave little to the imagination.

He took one look at me in it, and those hungry eyes went back for seconds. That double take did me in. By the time his eyes finally landed on mine, my insides were a quivering mess. Then he leaned in to kiss me and whispered, “You listen so well,” turning those quivers into an avalanche of anticipation.

It’s crazy for me to get off on something like that.

Ridiculous, really.

But so very thrilling, even thinking about it now turns me on.

The casino buzzes with the fearless optimism of people on vacation, where bad decisions feel harmless, and luck always seems one spin away. Light spills from fancy chandeliers, catching on polished marble and glittering cocktail glasses. Chips clank, cards snap, and slot machines chime like a serenade of bells on steroids.

“Jen!” Katelyn weaves through the crowd waving, her short blond hair tucked behind her ears, colorful maxi dress flowing around her feet. Her husband, Marco, is right behind her, his dark hair as tousled as it was earlier. Lily, a bubbly redhead, and Dave, a dark-haired musician, are with them, holding hands and smiling like they’ve already had a few drinks.

“I’m glad you came!” Katelyn exclaims, and throws her arms around me.

The reunion is happy and loud as I’m passed from one embrace to the next, and everyone talks over one another. Then four sets of curious eyes land on Fitz, and my heart beats a little faster.

“Fitz,” I say. “This is Katelyn and her husband, Marco, and Lily, and her fiancé, Dave.” I suddenly realize I have no idea how to introduce Fitz. Do I say he’s my friend? An orgasm donor? A summer fling who’s back for seconds? I go for something light and easy. “You guys, this is Fitz Silver. He’s been adulting all day at a conference.”

“That sounds horrible,” Katelyn says.

“I actually enjoyed it,” Fitz says.

“Did she say your name is Fitz?” Marco asks. “Like F. Scott Fitzgerald?”

“Yes, that’s my name, but not after the writer,” he says. “My father’s an artist. I was named for Fitz Henry Lane, a famous painter.” He offers his hand and a warm smile, greeting each of them by name.

I’m surprised to hear his father is an artist. I imagined his parents to be overly refined and stuffy, which is odd, since Fitz has class, but he’s not at all stuffy. I realize with distaste that that’s probably the type of preconceived notion he was referring to last night and chide myself for it, understanding a little more clearly the weight of what that was—is—probably like.