Page 35 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
“Having an allergic reaction is not the same as making an ass of yourself.”
“Maybe. But hacking up half-chewed food into a napkin after implying that your security detail is hot? I think that sort of qualifies.” I grab my latte again, popping the lid off to temporarily hide behind the billowing steam.
“For the record, I’m the one who implied he was hot,” Gretchen says, correcting me. “Which he is. And it could’ve been worse. You could have thrown up on him. You’ve got to look on the bright side here.”
“There is no bright side. There’s only one side to this whole situation. The deeply confusing side.”
Flustered, I sit on the edge of my bed, taking a big, well-deserved sip of my latte. It burns my tongue a little, but I hardly notice. It’s nothing compared to how swollen and tingly it was last night, so there’s that.
“What’s so confusing? You’re doing great. Your team won last night. They’re going to crush it again tonight. And you’ve got a sexy-as-fuck bodyguard who follows you around.”
I let out a shaky sigh. “It’s just a lot to handle. The games, the gossip, the fact that this city still isn’t on my side. Alex. Toss in Holt on top of it, and I just . . .” I shudder, letting myself feel everything at once.
I never had that ride-or-die tribe of women in college that others seemed to have. Yes, I had Gretchen, but she and I weren’t that close. She has a group of girlfriends that she’s had since high school and often hung out with them.
I tried not to let that bother me, but to be honest, sometimes it did. My social media feed made it seem that every other female out there had this pack of girlfriends who were there through every triumph and failure. But after my very public breakup and subsequent promotion, I barely got two or three phone calls from friends asking how I was doing.
Of course, one was Gretchen, but I just never had that big group of friends. I guess that suits me. I’m more of a loner than I let on. But that doesn’t mean I don’t long for more close friendships.
And don’t even get me started on the mess of confusion that is Holt. He’s always made me feel a lot of things. Attraction. Fascination. Anxiety.
I throw up my hands, forgetting for a moment that I’m still holding my latte and almost spill it all over my white duvet.
Frustrated, I leap to my feet. “See? I’m a shit show.”
“Okay, let’s break this down. One thing at a time.” Gretchen’s expression has turned serious. “Alex? I thought we were past that.”
“We are,” I say with certainty. “Doesn’t mean it’s not hard seeing him all the freaking time.”
She gives me a pensive look, as if trying to work out my feelings. “Okay . . .” The word leaves her lips slowly and with uncertainty.
Gretchen clearly doesn’t understand why this has been so hard for me. She knows I’ve moved on, and I really have. I don’t want another shot with Alex. I’ve been there, done that, given him my whole heart, and it still didn’t work out. She was right that I’ve moved on, but someone who hasn’t worked with their ex will never understand the struggle. It’s really a top-notch experience. Well done.
Blah. I feel like banging my head against the wall repeatedly. Thankfully, I don’t. I do, however, grab a set of gray cotton pajamas and toss them inside my bag.
“And then there’s Holt,” she says cautiously but with a flirtatious tilt to her mouth. “They’re so different in every way.”
You can say that again.
“There’s nothing between me and Holt other than some lingering chemistry.” Even as I say the words, I wonder if they’re true.
“If you say so.” Her tone is filled with doubt.
To hear Gretchen question my motives, when it comes to a man who I myself admittedly don’t understand, leaves me feeling vulnerable. It’s jarring.
“There’s been nothing between you two since you fled his bed that morning?”
“Not since that walk of shame.”
She huffs. “I told you I don’t like that term. It’s not a walk of shame. It’s a stride of pride.”
This pulls a chuckle out of me.
The conversation moves on, and when I glance over at her, instead of pity in Gretchen’s eyes, she’s suppressing a laugh.
I plant my hands on my hips, tilting my chin at her. “What?”
“You know what you need?”
“A chill pill?” I’m only half joking, but she shakes her head.
“No, you need to bang Holt to get him out of your system. You robbed yourself of that back in college, and that feeling of loss has lingered.”
Yeah, right.
I scoff, waving off her comment. “No way is that going to happen.”
“I’m totally serious.” Her tone is insistent and less playful than it was before. “I think it’s the only way you’re going to stop being so tightly wound about the whole thing.”
