Shane
Lately, he’d been doing the math. Raf made sense. Smart. Stylish. Grounded. The kind of woman with chapters already written. But those chapters weren’t like his. There were her kids, her divorce, her house on the beach that probably cost more than he’d make in a decade. Loving her would mean adapting to a life he wasn’t born into, even if he’d learned how to fake belonging when necessary. Still, the potential was real. And yet… she didn’t keep him up at night.
Wendy, on the other hand…
Three times. They’d had sex—made love?—three wild, mind-blowing times. That was it. But it had left a mark. He’d never swim in the pool again without thinking about how they’d ruined it.
He thought about her in the shower. When he woke up hard and restless, staring at the ceiling, trying to think about anyone else.
He hadn’t said much to her since she barged into his apartment and rode him like a 90’s porn star on his brand-new sectional, the one Raf had hand-selected. He felt guilty about that. Not just for what he did, but for how much he wanted to do it again.
And yet there was always a line between wanting and needing. Wendy blurred it. Raw attraction always scared him a little. Because if he ever actually had her, if he stopped chasing and finally caught Wendy, he wasn’t sure what would be left. Not mystery. Not seduction. Just the exhausting, messy truth of her.
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He reaches for a bottle of mezcal and starts building a drink for no one in particular, muscle memory more than purpose. Then, as he pours, he hears her voice, as if right on cue.
“I’m starting to think you ghosted me,” she says, sliding onto a barstool.
“Wendy,” he answers, surprised. He sets the glass down, annoyed because he’s happy to see her, and instantly aroused because he’s annoyed. “You don’t exactly ghost easily.”
“Then why the radio silence?”
Shane drags a hand through his hair. “Work’s been insane. Raf’s been riding me about the apartment. She takes perfectionism to a psychotic level. I can’t tell if I’m her project or if she’s mine.”
“Right. That tracks.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Wendy says, lashes fluttering. “Just thought I’d rank a little higher on your priority list.”
Shane lifts a brow, caught off guard. “Didn’t realize there was a scoreboard.”
“Isn’t there always?” she asks, downing the untouched drink in front of her in one elegant sweep.
“I’ll make it up to you. Dinner sometime?”
Then she leans in, her breath grazing his jaw. “Sure. If you make it worth my while.”
He gives her that look, part challenge, part charm. “You been to Craig’s on Melrose yet?”
“Eh. Can I be real with you, Shane?”
“Always.”
She drops her voice to a purr: “If you really want to win me over?” She holds his gaze, the gleam in her eyes giving nothing away. “Double Quarter Pounder with cheese. Large fries. Six-piece McNuggets. Extra ketchup. Barbecue sauce. Large Diet Coke.”
“You’re serious?”
She pops a cherry into her mouth, shrugs, then flashes him a smile, softer than usual.
“Guilty pleasure.”
“You’re full of surprises, Wendy.”
“I should hope so,” she coos, then slides off the stool, already melting into the crowd, but not before tossing a final look that knocks the breath out of him.
“See you around, Shane,” she says, trailing Dior and a look he can’t decipher—longing, regret, maybe just indifference? Clearly, it meant something. He just wasn’t sure what.