“So what’s with the Sex for Dummies book? It’s been a while? It’s like riding a bike, Chloe. It comes back to you. Just get back on the horse, so to speak.” Jesus fuck. Shut up, you idiot.
She gnaws at her lower lip for a few seconds before responding. “I guess.”
I flash a grin at her. “Or are you needing basic instructions?”
“I have the basics, thank you.” I don’t think she’s going to say anything more, but then she continues. “Everly keeps telling me I just need someone who knows what they’re doing, but I think it’s me. You know? So I thought studying might help. I tried watching porn, but like…” She trails off.
“Like what?” I ask, while my dick tells me to shut the fuck up. He wants to focus on the image of Chloe watching porn.
“Like those people already like each other,” she says, drumming her fingers against her bent knee. “Really like each other, right? They skip past all the weird stuff.”
“What’s the weird stuff?”
“For starters, do I ask him to come inside?”
I glance over at her, brow raised.
She slaps a hand over her eyes. “My house!” she clarifies. “Do I ask him to come inside my house? Or do I wait for him to bring it up? How close do I sit next to him? How obvious am I supposed to make it that I like him? Do I invite him to spend the night? Wait for him to make a move? Like, how do you know you’re both on the same page? Maybe one of you is thinking you’re about to have hot amazing sex and the other one of you is thinking about nachos.” She sighs. “The dating transition from college to adulthood isn’t easy. And I wasn’t great at it in college. I get anxious in social settings.”
“Chloe, promise me you won’t repeat what I’m about to tell you.”
“Okay.”
“Ever. This is serious.”
“Okay! I promise!” She tilts her head, a small smile on her face, amused with my dramatics.
“This is hard for me to say. And I hope I never have to say it again, but… Everly is right.”
Chloe throws back her head and laughs and that’s worth having to agree with Everly about something.
Nine
Chloe
Boyd’s cocky. And hot. And kinda nice, even though he’s cocky. I’d be a nervous wreck around him if I’d met him on a dating site. Not that we’re dating. I almost laugh at the idea. Definitely not a date, he doesn’t even have confidence that I can dress myself for our fake date. Whatever. But this car ride has been nice. Not as awkward as I thought it would be, and we’re making great time; it’s only taken us ninety minutes to reach the Lincoln Tunnel. I wonder, if Boyd got pulled over for speeding, would he flash his badge and get out of it?
As we enter the tunnel and the car is submerged in darkness I wonder what the heck he’s going to pick out for me to wear. It better not be too short, I think, giving him a quick glance. I bet he’s used to women in short sexy numbers. Maybe I can fake sexy for a night? Wait, this reminds me…
“Am I supposed to pretend it’s a real date next weekend? Or am I supposed to pretend I’m there as your friend?”
The tunnel whizzes past as he drives and even though the tunnel is lit, it’s much darker in the car than it was a few moments ago. He looks over at me, his face shadowed by the darkness, but I don’t miss the analytical look on his face.
“Are you anxious about a fake date?”
“No!” Maybe just a little. “I’m just, you know, clarifying, because you never said.”
“It’s a real fake date,” he says, looking a little annoyed.
“Real fake,” I repeat. “That is super confusing.”
“Just pretend you like me.”
“I don’t dislike you,” I offer helpfully. “You’re okay.”
He runs his tongue along his bottom lip and glances at me out of the side of his eye.
“What? I’m just agreeing that it won’t be horribly hard to pretend to like you.” He’s sort of confusing, this guy.
“Great,” he says as he slows the car as we exit the tunnel and roll up to a traffic light.
“Look, I’m sure you’re not used to women faking it with you, but this fake date was your idea, not mine.”
“You’re right. I’m not used to women faking it with me.” He smirks. He’s not even looking at me, his attention on the road ahead of him, so I think he’s smirking to himself. Asshole.
Yet.
Yet I can’t help but think he’s earned that smirk. I can admit I’m curious. Even if it’s never going to happen, my imagination is not nearly as socially awkward as I am. So I can visualize him on top of me. Holding himself above me with those arms—he has really nice arms. He’s wearing a navy sweater and he’s pushed the sleeves up to the elbow at some point during this drive so I’ve had time to observe them close up, and, yeah. Arm porn. I bet he has no problems unscrewing those tough lids on jars. Or fucking. Either or.
“Is it our first date? This wedding? Or have we been seeing each other a while?”
He nods his head slowly, like he approves of my planning our fake dating history. “Not a first date, but it’s a new relationship. How’s that?”
“Okay, I can do that.”
I’m quiet while Boyd navigates the streets of Manhattan. He seems intent on a destination and while I’m curious, I’m happy to go along with the flow. It’s sorta nice having someone take charge of the day. New York has this energy about it, it’s fun to watch it from the comfort of the car. Philadelphia’s a huge city too, but nothing like the chaos of Manhattan. Philly is more my speed on a day-to-day basis, but New York for a day will be fun.
Boyd turns down 17th and pulls into a garage. I slide my feet back into my sneakers and apply a fresh layer of Chapstick while Boyd finds a parking spot. I didn’t catch the cross street when we pulled in, but we exit the garage and end up on 5th Avenue after a short block with Boyd guiding our direction.
“We have to make a stop first,” he says, sliding a pair of sunglasses over his eyes, his demeanor serious.