Page 25 of Strut

I snorted. “Now there’s an image.”

“You know what I mean. And to be honest, most of them had a lot more in common with that comparison than I’m willing to say. My point is, you deserve more.”

I hesitated. “He turned me down flat.”

The comment was greeted by a long silence and bunched brows. “You’ve asked him out?” He sounded confused.

“Well, yes, but I, um... there was... something happened back there... before he left.” I winced.

Rhys’s gaze narrowed. “Fuck. What did you do?”

I pouted. “Why do you assume it was—”

“Whatdid you do?”

I huffed. “All right. I might’ve hooked up with him... once... before fashion week. Nothing major, just a hand job behind a bar.”

Rhys gaped. “You did what?” He scrunched his eyes closed and sighed. “Oh, Jesus, Hunter.”

“I know, I know.” I slumped in my chair. “But I thought it would get him out of my system.”

The eye-roll Rhys gave almost tipped the laptop off the table. “Of course you bloody did. And so you treated him like every other guy you pick up. Way to make him feel special. God help me. There are idiots and then there’s my best friend.” Rhys glared like he was fighting a host of other things he wanted to say. Instead, he took a long, slow breath. “Did you even tell him you actually liked him before wrapping your meaty paw around his dick?”

Two beats of silence. “No. I might’ve forgotten that part in the heat of the moment. And that’s not all.”Oh god, here goes nothing. “I, um, I really fucked up.”

Rhys squinted in that are-you-fucking-kidding-me way. “Explain.”

“After we’d... you know, I kind of blew him off. I left him standing against the wall and took off. And then we never talked about it.” I screwed my eyes shut, waiting for the explosion.

“You did what?”

And there it was. I peeled one eyelid open to find my best friend’s face painted in ten shades of livid.

“Holy fuck, Hunter! Hang on.” Rhys shoved his chair back and did a circuit of his lounge, kicking the chair as he passed for a second round before taking his seat again. “I have to say, that’s a whole new level of douchebaggery I never expected of you.”

The disappointment in his voice stung, but I deserved it. “I know. I know. But we did finally talk last night. And yes, I apologised. You’ll be pleased to know he didn’t go easy on me.”

Rhys snorted and shook his head. “Good for him. The man obviously has scruples and taste, which is a fucking miracle based on who you usually go for.”

“Hey!”

“Don’t pretend it’s not true.”

I had nothing.

He stared at me, looking for something, I wasn’t sure what. “Right, so you try again. You like him. You’ve apologised. You’re in New York—together. You can try again.”

“I did, today. He turned me down again. Not that I blame him.”

“Well, shit.” Rhys studied me with that perceptive gaze, amusement turning to concern. Then he tipped his head from side to side.

“Don’t try and analyse me.” I scowled and took another slug of coffee. “I gave it my best shot and failed. Nothing to see here, folks. Life goes on.”

“I don’t have to try.” He grinned. “And could you possibly use more idioms in a row? It’s embarrassing.”

I finally smiled, which I guessed was his intention. “You only know that word because you’re shacked up with a poetry professor.”

Rhys waggled his eyebrows. “Damn right. Beckett says iambic pentameter and I drop to my fucking knees. And don’t even get me started on words like assonance and enjambed. The man does a couplet like you wouldn’t believe—”

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