Page 5 of Changing the Playbook
He almost chokes with laughter. “Fantasies about nurses…” He pauses. “The first nurse I sleep with will be the first…”
“Good thing you’re into new things…” I say, and then suddenly flush beet red, because this isn’t meat all.
He just grins.
“As for the fashion…” I backtrack. “I hate to disappoint, but it’s mostly baggy scrubs and clogs that could double as flotation devices.”
“I don’t know.” His gaze tracks over me with an appreciation that prickles along my spine. “Bet you make flotation devices work.”
The traffic light ahead burns red, and I’ve never been more grateful for civic infrastructure. Maybe he’ll think the flush on my cheeks is just its reflection.
“Left here,” I manage, nodding toward my street. “Second building, the one with the fire escape that’s definitely not up to code.”
We navigate the remaining block, all broken streetlights and shadows, the shady ‘I’m not on a scholarship and my parents aren’t rich’ section of Pine Barren student housing. And, as we walk, Mike moves beside me with the easy ownership of someone who’s never questioned his right to space, all six-foot-three of male confidence.
But he’s careful, too, maintaining distance like he’s decoded some signal in my body language. Which he probably has, because my body language right now is broadcasting “conflicted” in neon. And, as if to prove it, at my building’sentrance I fumble with my keys while acutely aware of Mike behind me, patient and radiating a warmth that tempts me to imagine what would happen if I leaned back.
Bad idea, Sophie, my mind helpfully chimes in.Thoughts like that will complicate your nice, uncomplicated one-night stand plan.
Three flights of stairs have never felt longer—why couldn’t I afford a place with an elevator?—and by the time we reach my door, my heart races for reasons unrelated to the climb and everything to do with what comes next. Inside, I drop my keys in the ceramic dish Hazel made me in art class, which is lopsided and painted in violent purples.
“Nice place,” Mike says, taking in my salvaged furniture and the wall of pharmacology flashcards I really should take down.
“Thanks. It’s got all the essentials—roof, walls, and neighbors who blast EDM on weekendsandon weekdays. Drink?” I head to the fridge, needing something to occupy my hands. “I have water, wine that might have achieved sentience, and…” I sniff the milk carton. “Yeah, no. Just the water and the questionable wine.”
“I’m good.”
When I turn, he’s migrated closer, just beyond arm’s reach. The air between us thickens with possibility. This is the part I know—where the guy makes his move, navigates us toward the bedroom, and kicks off the naked portion of the evening. But Mike just stands there, watching me.
“So,” I say.
“So.”
Fine. I can do this. I close the gap. “Bedroom’s that way.”
He doesn’t move. “Is that where you want to go?”
The question catches in my chest. “Yes.”
He nods slowly, then surprises me by framing my face with his hands. His palms are rough, but impossibly gentle. “Can I kiss you first, Sophie?”
My brain stalls.
Who asks?
In my limited post-Jimmy experience, guys just… take.
They assume.
They steer, and I follow because that’s easier than choosing.
“I—yes.”
His thumb traces my cheekbone as he leans in, and when his mouth finds mine, it’s exploratory rather than conquering. The kiss is deliberate, almost reverent, like I’m something worth studying instead of skimming. But as his tongue slides against mine, thorough and unhurried, I decide this isnice.
Still, anxiety needles at me. He should be fumbling with my bra by now. That’s how this works, and I get distracted wondering why he isn’t escalating. I let the kiss go on for a short while, then I press closer, my chest meeting his. But instead of taking the hint, he just huffs a laugh against my mouth and eases back.
“What’s the rush?” His breath ghosts warm across my lips.
