Page 16 of Hot Girl Summer

“You don’t know what it is yet.”

Standing, I cock a brow, and clear the plates. “I’m sure I can take a guess.”

Is it really so bad that all I want to do is fuck him and get the hell out of here?

Alex takes the plates out of my hands and sets them down on the table. “The washing up can wait,” he says, stealing a kiss.

A soft groan escapes his mouth, and heat emanates from him as he gently grasps my hair. Hot, hungry lips trail along my neck and collarbone, and I arch my body in response, mainly for his benefit, as his fingers find the hem of my top.

Slowly, he traces a line up my spine, and as he does, I find myself picturing Danny. His face, the width of his palms spanning the small of my back, and the thought of him instantly spreads heat between my legs. Fuck.

“No bra?” Alex asks, pulling me back into the present.

“No need,” I say, and follow him to the bedroom.

Awhile later, I am spent, satisfied and ready to leave. Outside of sex, we have next to nothing in common, and the dinner Alex made that served as foreplay is over. There’s no reason for me to stay.

“What’s for dessert?” I ask, pulling the sheets over in an attempt at modesty now that the heat between us has dissipated.

“That was dessert.”

“Disappointing,” I smirk.

Alex climbs off the bed and grabs a box of tissues. After wiping himself down, he hands me the box and leaves the room to discard the condom while I clean myself up.

“Shall we get some ice cream on the pier?” he calls.

“I’m good, thanks.”

I would rather go without. Ninety-nine flake ice creams and summer evening walks along the pier are forever etched in fond childhood memories, and encroaching on them with someone I barely even like would taint them.

Once my breathing slows, I swing my legs around and jump off the bed, instantly wishing I hadn’t.

Sharp pain tears through my heel, and reflexes send me yelping and hopping backwards. Perching on the edge of the bed, I inspect the tender point, then lean down to the floor and pick up the offending implement—a hot pink acrylic nail which doesn’t belong to me. I desperately hope I don’t catch something from it.

After I’m dressed and ready to leave, I take the nail into the kitchen to discard. Flipping the lid of the bin open, I toss in the plastic shard, and it ricochets off a chicken parmigiana ready meal packet. I knew it was too good to be true. Alex isn’t the type of boy to make anything from scratch. But the fact that he didn’t try to hide the evidence makes me realise that his opinion of me is even less than my own. This is the actual—and the proverbial—nail in the coffin. He’s sloppy, and I’m done.

From behind, Alex snakes his arms around my waist. I jolt, quickly closing the bin, and turn around.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Actually, I’m not feeling too good.” The people pleaser in me would still rather lie than risk bruising his ego.

“You know ice cream is the answer to everything.”

When he tries to embrace me, I tense, instinctively rubbing my temples. The thought of being anywhere near him makes me nauseous.

“All that cheese has given me a headache. I think I’m going to go home.” Like a dodgeball champion, I body-swerve, and make a beeline for my things.

“We have painkillers somewhere.”

“It’s okay, really. I just need some rest.” I force a smile as I open the front door.

“Thanks for dinner.”

He goes in for a kiss, but I step back into the communal hallway before it has a chance to land, and practically fly down the stairs. Outside, relief sweeps over me. On my cycle home, I make a pact with myself. No more notches, no more bedposts. At least not for a while.

When I arrive at the sage green door of the townhouse I call home, I head inside and lean my bike against the wall in the hallway, grateful that the promise of sleep finally beckons.

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