“Think you can keep up?”

This guy has a rogue’s smile, meant to make both girls’ and boys’ hearts swell and break. Mine remains as it is, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Try me.”

9

BEN

Annabelle talks for a straight ten minutes, and I don’t pick up half of it. We’re in front of a beautiful figure painting, but all I see is Holly laughing while she stands in Jasper’s arms. Jasper is charming and funny, and even though I don’t swing that way, I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t one of the hottest guys I knew. So, I’m not surprised that she likes him.

That is exactly why I want to punch him in his douche-bag face.

He knows exactly how hung up on her I am. But what does he do the moment he sees her? Steals her away!

Holly would probably tear me a new one for saying someone is capable of stealing her. Probably say something along the lines of her not being a toy for boys to fight over. She’d want me to be honest with her, to tell her that I’d hoped we could spend the whole party together.

But what did my dumb ass do? I let my ex climb all over me and then abandoned the woman I really wanted to be with to my friend while I disappeared upstairs with said ex.

And we’ve been up here, going on fifteen minutes now. Holly probably thinks I have no interest in spending time with her. Maybe that I only invited her to make Annabelle jealous.

As my brain works through the idiocy that is me, I don’t notice at first that Annabelle has gone quiet. When I finish my brain cartwheels, I turn to find her gazing up at me with a content smile.

“I love watching you get lost in my work.”

Because I feel bad about tuning her out, I give her something. “You’ve switched up your brushstrokes. Gives the pieces more fluidity.”

She giggles and rolls her eyes. “Look at you, Ben. Trying to talk like an artist.”

Wow.

Yeah, I’m done with this.

Like I thought, she brought me up here just for the ego boost, not to have a real conversation about her work.

Annabelle creates beautiful paintings, but her self-centered way of thinking is one of the main reasons I broke things off with her.

The other was that she didn’t make my blood heat or my heart race, the way my dad had once described falling in love with Mom.

“I’m going to head back downstairs. Holly’s probably looking for me.”

“Wait.” Her grip on my arm is light but still feels intrusive, especially because she’s holding my left forearm, close to where I place the needles for my treatment. “Are you and Holly …”

The vagueness of her question grates on my nerves, but it’s also the fact that I know what she’s asking and can’t give the answer I want. Still, what we are and aren’t isn’t her business.