Kelsey: I hate you.
Chapter Ten
JP
“You know, maybe we should discuss what we’re going to say in the meeting,” Kelsey says as she fidgets next to me in the car.
Last night was . . . hell, I don’t even know how to describe what happened last night. If I wasn’t so irritated, I might have actually found it comical. But my irritation turned into anger as I lay in bed because for the fucking life of me, I couldn’t get the feeling of her exasperated breath blowing on my nuts. That breath was the most action I’ve received in months.
It tingled.
Felt good.
And before I knew it, I was jacking off in the shower over the goddamn fact that she breathed on my scrotum. I’m so desperate and horny that I actually liked it.
Let me tell you something, the stark realization of that—of understanding that you’re such a lonely bastard that a woman’s breath on your junk gets you horny—is incredibly unsettling and, frankly, pathetic.
And yet, there I was last night, hammering away on my dick because, if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been able to get any sleep.
I woke up this morning, unable to think any less of myself.
In an attempt to lift my self-esteem, I went to the gym, stared at myself in the mirror while doing bicep curls and listening to Adele—Easy on Me—and recited affirmations in my head.
You are strong.
You are handsome.
You’re not a pathetic loser who jacks off to a simple exhalation.
Once I repeated that mantra over and over in my head, I went back to my room, opened my computer, and donated ten thousand dollars to a pigeon rescue, because in all honesty, I doubt many people care about pigeons at all.
From the combination of seeing my biceps work in their pure form, Adele’s uplifting voice, my affirmations, and a solid donation . . . I felt better about myself and felt confident I could face this day head-on.
That was, until Kelsey appeared from her room wearing a skintight pencil skirt, which hits just above her calves, and a black, sleeveless turtleneck. She smelled like a goddamn angel sent from above and looked like hell on heels with her voluptuous hair in waves hanging loosely over her shoulders.
Fuck.
Me.
The memory of the exhalation—that’s what we’ll call it now—came roaring back to life, and I had to turn away to hide any impending excitement.
You are strong.
You are handsome.
You’re not a pathetic loser who jacks off to a simple exhalation.
That was on repeat the entire morning while I moved around Kelsey, grabbing coffee and a protein bar while she made herself scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, spinach, and oddly . . . black beans. I’ve never seen anyone work so cleanly in a kitchen, nor have I seen someone set out a complete place setting—placemat included—for breakfast. It was hard not to watch.
After her breakfast spectacle, we made our way to the lobby, where a car was waiting for us, and now we’re making our way through rush-hour traffic in San Francisco.
“Did you hear me?” Kelsey asks, poking me.
I glance at where she poked me in the arm and then back at my phone.
She huffs in anger and turns toward me, swatting my phone out of my hand. It falls to the floor of the car with a clunk.
“Hey—”
With her red-painted nail, she points very closely at my face and leans in. “Listen to me, Jonathan Patrick Cane—”
“That’s not my name.”
“I don’t care if your name is Junior Pooper, you’re going to listen to me.” Don’t laugh at Junior Pooper, do not laugh. “I’m sick of you ignoring me. Let’s call last night what it was, a total miss on my end. I’ll take the blame for how things . . . panned out, but now you’re just being cruel.”
“I’m not being cruel. I just don’t have anything to say to you.”
“You always have something to say to me. Always. From the moment I freaking met you, you’ve had something to say. You’ve never stopped talking, nagging, prodding. You’re constantly in my ear chattering about utter nonsense, and now, all of a sudden, you’re going to stop? When we have to spend two weeks together?” She shakes her head. “Oh no, that’s not how this is going to work. I would rather spend two weeks in a penthouse with you constantly aggravating me with your nonsensical drivel than this silent treatment you’ve decided to try out. You might not think it’s cruel, but it is. It’s not fair to me. You won’t even let me apologize.”
“Apologize for what?” I ask.