Page 17 of Not Made to Last

“You’re overthinking it,” Rhys says out of nowhere, and I white-knuckle the steering wheel to stop myself from climbing over the center console and choking the life out of him. Overthinking it? No. That’s not the problem here. The problem is that I wasn’t thinking at all. “It’s really not that big a deal,” he continues.

Of course it’s not… to him.

“It’s just biology, right?”

“Biology…” I suck in air through my nose and try to keep my composure. “Sure.”

“If you think about it, we’re just two consenting adults attracted to each?—”

“Can you—” I cut myself off when I realize the loudness of my voice. After a long exhale, I roll back my shoulders and try again. “Can you just… stop?”

“Stop what?”

“Talking.” I glance at him quickly. “Please.”

His cocky smirk returns, and I force myself to ignore its effect on me. “Whatever you say, Liv.”

True to his word, Rhys keeps his mouth shut during the few minutes it takes to get to his neighborhood. Once there, he tells me to turn into the same street where this entire shit-show of a night started. “Don’t park under a streetlight, and kill your headlights,” he says, just as his phone goes off with a text.

I do as he says, not bothering to ask questions because what would be the point? Rhys seems to live in his own world where he makes up his own rules, like, it’s totally fine to do what we did because “biology.”

Fuck biology.

And fuck Rhys Garrett.

And fuck me for being so unjustifiably irate toward him. It’s not entirely his fault, obviously. I was there, too, grinding on that forbidden dick like an undersexed, overpaid stripper. Or is it exotic dancer? Sex worker? Whatever.

After replying to the text, he sets the phone on his lap and turns to me. I look away. “He’s around the corner,” he states, as if I’m supposed to know who “he” is. “Want to make out while we wait?”

I drop my forehead on the steering wheel and let out my frustrations in a groan.

“You’re so dramatic.” Rhys laughs. Because, of course, he does. “Chill the fuck out.”

“I can’t,” I tell him honestly. He has no idea how bad this situation is. Not for him, but for me. I lift my head, turning my entire body toward him. I try not to look in his eyes… or at his mouth…

“You want to kiss me again, don’t you?”

“Oh my God,” I murmur, lifting my gaze in search of a god who clearly doesn’t exist.

“We kissed, Liv. That’s it.”

“No one calls me Liv!” I rush out, as if that’s the topic at hand. It’s not. I’m heated, clearly, and I don’t know how to fix it. “No one can know about this, Rhys. I mean it.”

“Why do you care so much about what Dominic?—”

“That’s not—” I cut myself off before I reveal too much. If this gets out, Dom will be the least of my problems. “Just swear you won’t?—”

“Relax,” he says, stretching out the single word. “I won’t say dick to anyone, and as long as you can keep your shit together, no one has to find out.”

I look at him, right into his eyes, and I search for any hint of a lie. “You swear you won’t tell anyone?”

“You want me to pinky promise?” He doesn’t even try to hide his irritation. “Write it out in a fucking contract, and I’ll sign it with my blood if that’s what you need.”

I exhale, wishing I were anywhere but here. “Now you’re just being mean.”

“Me?” he scoffs. “You’re the one treating me like a child, demanding shit from me—as if you didn’t just rub up against my cock less than ten minutes ago.”

A gasp catches in my throat, my attention flicking to the back seat. Max is still fast asleep. “Stop talking about it!”

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