Page 49 of Can't Always Get What You Want

I raise a brow. “Yet?”

She grins. “Look, I’m not saying sneak around forever. But give yourself permission to see where this goes. With no one else in your head about it.”

“I’m serious,” she continues, chewing. “You can’t keep doing the whole hide-and-deflect routine forever because you like him.”

I groan and let my head fall against the wall beside my table, the wood chair creaking under me. “I barely know him.”

Poppy arches a brow, clearly enjoying herself. “And you like him.”

I hesitate, then nod slowly. “And I like him.”

“FINALLY.” She throws her hands up, nearly knocking over her latte. “She’s admitting it, everyone! Nova Montagalo likes a man and she hasn’t shoved him off a cliff yet!”

“Would you keep your voice down? People are looking at me.”

“No one is looking at you.” She levels me with a look, leaning closer to her phone to study my face. “You’re glowing.”

I scoff. “I am not.”

I might be.

I can feel the flush on my cheeks.

“You are. It’s giving ‘first crush at summer camp’ and I’m totally obsessed.” She grins, smug and victorious. “For once you’re talking to someone who doesn’t have commitment issues and an Instagram account full of gym selfies.”

I press my lips together, trying not to laugh. “That wasoneguy.”

“That was three guys.”

Touché.

Fine.

It was three—possibly four?

There’s no doubt I have a type: big, broody, fit. Blame it on my brother, I’m used to men who stay in shape and take care of themselves, considering I’ve been surrounded by them almost my entire life.

The kind of guys who keep their jaws clenched, their texts short, and their gym bags in the passenger seat like it’s their second girlfriend.

I grew up on the sidelines and in the back seat of my mom’s SUV, half-asleep with a Gatorade bottle rolling around on the floor. I knew how to tape an ankle before I could drive. Learned the language of grunts and shoulder shrugs.

I am fluent in locker room jargon.

My brother taught me muscles were armor, and being tough was better than being open. And somewhere along the way, I equated being closed off with safety.

Maybe I date these guys because they’re familiar.

Predictable.

I know how to read them—when they need space, when they’re upset but won’t say it, when they’re using sarcasm to hide the fact they care more than they want to admit.

Or maybe I just like the challenge?

If I can be the one girl who cracks through the hard exterior,I’ll win some kind of prize. Emotional intimacy, I guess. Or at least the illusion of it…

“Your face is doing the thing again,” Poppy says, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“What thing?”

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