Page 47 of The Accidental Dating Experiment

I can barely form sentences, my mind is so buzzed on her.

I open the door and say goodnight to the driver. We head into The Horny House together.

But also, apart.

17

THE WOW

Juliet

I can’t blame the mirrored bed for what we did in the car. I can’t even blame the liquor.

One glass didn’t make me tipsy. Monroe did, with his limo, and his wow, and his stupid, big-hearted willingness to help me out. Ugh. Why can’t he be a bad boy for real?

But it’s clear tonight was a mistake. A toe-curling one, but a mistake, nonetheless.

I roll my shoulders as I walk across the lawn, shrugging it off, moving on.

It’s no big deal. It was just a momentary lapse of reason, and you’ll go back to being co-workers.

But another voice says, let it lapse again, girl.

That’s not helpful, so I ignore both voices as we head up the steps of the house.

The second Monroe punches in six-nine-six-nine, I snap my gaze away from the lock pad. I do not need this sex house’s vibe seducing me again.

I take a deep breath, in and out, letting go of the limo ride fully.

Monroe holds the door open for me. Disappointed, I go inside, wincing as I walk through the living room. Our footsteps echo loudly and awkwardly in our silence.

What happens next? Do we brush our teeth, put on jammies, and hop into separate bunks?

Yes. You do. Like responsible adults.

I hate that thought. But it’s what we should do, so when we reach the hallway that leads to the main bedroom, I force myself to adult. “Why don’t I get ready for bed and?—”

“—great. I’m going to…” But he never finishes the thought. Just turns the other way toward the kitchen.

Okay. That’s clear. The man is leaving the limo ride in the past, like everything else.

I swallow past the lump in my throat as I trudge into the bedroom, not even bothering to flick on the lights as I fall face-first onto the bed.

“Ugh,” I mutter into the pillows. “This sucks.”

I do nothing but lie there, sad, a little empty, and all sorts of annoyed. With him, but also with me, and with this whole damn dating experiment.

After a minute or two of feeling sorry for myself, I grab my phone from my purse, skipping my self-improvement podcasts.

I don’t need help. I need music, and I need it fast. I toggle over to my show tunes and click on “Popular” from Wicked. It has nothing to do with love or romance, and—bonus—Monroe would hate it.

I hit play, and the bright voices of Idina Menzel and Kristen Chenoweth fill the bedroom. It’s like an assist from a witch that can deflect Monroe. This song witch will wipe the kiss and the limo ride from my mind. But when I flip over so I can head to the bathroom and wash my face, I flinch.

He’s here, standing against the wooden frame of the bunk bed. His forearm rests against the top bed. The other hand holds a glass of…scotch, from the looks of it. His eyes are hard. Determined. I must not have heard him come in over the music.

He lifts the glass, knocks some back, then says in a rough, commanding tone that is clear over the song: “There’s something I meant to say in the limo.”

“What’s that?” I ask above the rising notes.