Page 52 of Meet Hate Love
Vance took my hand, threading his fingers through mine before he pushed to his feet. “We’ve got to go.”
We shimmied out of the pew and headed straight toward the exit.
“You dated her?” I whispered.
“Are you jealous?”
“No. I’m judging.” Judging him while pretending his holding my hand didn’t feel like the most natural thing ever.
Sunlight hit my face right before the sprawling view of the gray Parisian rooftops came into view. Then heels clicked through the doorway right behind us. Holy hell, she had followed us outside.
“How long have you two been together? A month?” She sounded frantic. “Two?”
Before I could answer, Vance spun me to face him. “Who’s counting time when, from the moment I laid eyes on you, Blake, there was never anyone else?”
Like an idiot, I melted. No wonder Crazy over there had evidently become obsessed. Massive dick. Pretty eyes. Honey-coated bullshit words that could trap flies.
Then he cupped my face in his hands and slammed his soft lips over mine. And yep, his kisses were absolutely incredible, and I was absolutely screwed.
Screwed because when his tongue went to part my lips, I allowed it. I tilted back my head, grabbing his shirt to pull him a little closer. One more second, I told myself as I swept my tongue against his, but when his fingers found their way into my hair, fisting as he deepened the kiss, I decided one more second wasn’t enough.
“You asshole!” Madison shouted moments before something cold splattered the side of my face. Heels clicked over concrete.
Vance pulled away, swiping clear liquid from his face. “She did not just throw water on us?”
She had. Water dripped down my neck. I turned to ask her what her problem was, but the pink fruit loop was halfway around the Basilica, wailing. When she disappeared from sight, I shifted my attention back to Vance.
“Why in the hell did you date her?”
He dragged his free hand through his hair, the dark tendrils falling back over his forehead in a way that screamed fuckable. “I didn’t date her.”
Classic player verbiage. I reminded myself of item number one on my “reasons I shouldn’t bump uglies with him” list I’d made yesterday.Probable slut puppy. “Right.” I crossed my arms over my chest and popped my hip to the side. “Let me guess. You only fucked her?”
“I didn’tjustfuck her…”
“But you didn’t really date her.” I stepped around a group of people sitting at the top of the stairs. “You’re a manwhore, aren’t you?” Blunt. To the point…
“I’m not a manwhore.” Said with the indignant appall of a man trying to defend his seed-spreading honor.
Body like a stripper, face like a high-fashion runway model, proud owner of at least one real-life stalker he hadn’t dated. I descended a few more steps.
“All signs point to you’re a liar.”
He let out an exasperated sigh. “When I lived here in college, I signed up for one of those online dating sites—”
“I’m judging you.”
Ignoring me, he kept going. “I matched with her.”
“Has the fact that you matched with her made you question your life?”
“Yes. It has.”
Good. Because it should. “So where does the ‘not dating but fucking in a way that doesn’t make you a manwhore’ come in?”
“We went on three dates—”
“Again.” I sidestepped an empty beer can, then hurried down a few more steps. “Judging that you went back after date one.”
