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Pause. Then he said, “How about we sleep this off and meet up tomorrow?”
So, he still wanted to see me. Just not tonight.
Don’t say it, Zoe. Don’t. Say. It.
Stay calm.
“Or maybe we won’t.”
Aaand, I said it. There was no doubt I’d cut off my nose to spite my face.
“I guess we’ll see then,” he said. Definitely not happy.
Which was fine. I was even less happy. “Alright. I guess we’ll talk later.”
“Okay.”
I wanted to say so much more. Later, gator. Or beg him to come. Apologize again. Anything to keep him on the phone.
But my pride wouldn’t allow it.
Instead I said, “Bye,” and hung up.
Sitting down, I stared at my phone. Willed it to buzz with a text like I’d done a thousand times. But none came through. And knowing Nate, likely none would. He made a decision and stuck to it—the man possessed as much discipline in his pinkie finger as most people I knew. Which was a trait I admired but didn’t particularly like at the moment.
No text.
Nate wasn’t coming.
Only one thing to do. Except, I didn’t even need to call for reinforcements. My phone did buzz then. It was Charlee, and she’d obviously heard about what was happening.
“I’m on my way.”
That’s when I promptly burst into tears. Whether it was because of her thoughtful, unwavering friendship, or the fact that Nate was seriously not coming. Or both. It didn’t matter.
Even worse? In my pit of despair over Erik, I’d felt like total shit. Sad. Angry. Sad again. But I had never felt as if someone had reached inside of my chest and ripped my heart directly out of it, then stomped on it a few times for good measure. This was a uniquely uncomfortable feeling, and one that told me what I’d already suspected.
Amidst all the dirty talk and getting-to-know-you texts, I’d gone and caught feelings for Nate Collins.
God dammit, Zoe, what the hell have you done?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
nate
“How did it go?” Lucas asked, handing me a beer.
I sat at his kitchen table, took a long swig, and didn’t say much for a few seconds. How did it go? “Exactly as you’d expect.”
“That good?”
“Worse.”
Neither of us spoke for half of the first beer. I replayed the conversation in my head. A huge part of me wanted to say, fuck it. Not give a shit about the fact that Zoe had lied by omission. Walk over to her apartment—the woman was in goddamn walking distance—and spend the rest of the night inside her. Claiming her.
But I couldn’t do that. Not right now.
“When you told me who he was. . .” My shoulders rose and sank.
