Page 57 of Ten Day Affair
“Because you’re not coming.”
“And you are still breathing, right? Great. Then you can still go.”
I glance around like the walls might help me come up with a good excuse. “I don’t know. It feels weird now. It was supposed to be a buffer night. Group vibe. Casual.”
“You’re still making it casual. He’s just hot. That’s not a reason to hide. Go have fun.”
I rub my forehead. “It’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is. We talked about this. Just enjoy the night. Let it be what it is. If something happens, great. If it doesn’t, you still got live music and overpriced cocktails.”
I’m quiet, because she’s right. And because I do still want to go. Even if I won’t admit that out loud.
“He’s not going to be here long, Sam. Stop wasting precious time worrying about what-ifs. This isn't a love story, it's an extended booty call. Treat it as such.”
I roll my eyes, but my chest warms. “Fine. I’ll go. But not because it's a booty call, because it will be a fun night.And I promise to leave all of this baggage in the hospital break room.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Have fun wrangling Jules Farraday’s tantrum.”
“Oh, I will. If she’s still ranting and making a scene, I’ll send pics.”
“You’d better.”
We hang up, and I stare at the phone for a beat too long.
Arden’s gone. Poof. Off to Atlanta to wrangle a barefoot starlet having a meltdown over a brand partnership. And just like that, I’m no longer going to Swifty’s with my best friend and my maybe-something, nothing, temporary neighbor.
I press the back of my head against the wall and close my eyes for a second. The tile is cool through my scrubs. My stomach’s already tightening, but it isn’t dread, it’s something else entirely.
This isn’t a date. It’s two people enjoying some live music. One of them just happens to be a very good-looking man I slept with once.
My fingers hover over the screen for a second too long. Then I just start typing, before I overthink it again.
Hey—small change of plans. Arden had to fly to Atlanta for a last-minute client crisis.
I hesitate after sending it, but the dots appear almost immediately. He’s already reading.
Then the reply.
So it’s just you and me tonight?
Don't tell me you're trying to back out.
My pulse kicks. I shift in the hard plastic chair, crossand uncross my legs, like I can out-squirm the feeling working its way down my spine.
I should tell him we can reschedule. I should give him the out.
No, I’m still on. Unless you want to reschedule. I’d understand.
The reply comes quickly.
Not a chance. I’m looking forward to it.
God, what is wrong with me? I’m grinning. Like an actual idiot. My cheeks flush, and I have to duck my head and breathe through the warmth crawling up my neck.
I’m grateful no one walks in and catches me like this—flushed and jittery and stupidly pleased over five lines of text.
