Crush - Kelsie Rae Page 0,8
I’m in a committed relationship, and he’s willing to get tested, which would be a lil’ bit awkward to bring up on the first date. Hey, I’m pregnant with someone else’s kid. Would you mind taking an STD test before we get to the boinking part?”
Snorting, Dylan clarifies, “Boinking? I’m sorry, when was the last time you had sex?”
“Too long ago,” I admit. “And it was crappy too. Wes Winters––”
“Ew. He’s the worst.”
“He really is. Gave me a complex as soon as we were finished, and I haven’t been willing to do the whole one-night stand thing ever since. Needless to say, he left a bad taste in my mouth.”
“You and me both. Wes is an ass.”
“Remember when Grady punched him, though? Pretty sure all the girls in Sunnyville were sending their approval and virtual high-fives.”
She laughs. “Glad he could be of service.”
“Mmmhmm.”
“Ya know, even though you can’t have any booty calls, you can still daydream, right?”
“I guess. Or maybe I’ll just download a dating app and can peruse the lack of options to help remind me that I’m better off alone, anyway.”
“That’s the spirit. I gotta pee. This baby is doing somersaults on my bladder, but I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“See ya, Dylan. Tell Grady hi for me.”
She yells at someone from her end before she replies to me, “He says hi and that I look like a goddess in the maternity photos. You’re the best.”
“And don’t you ever forget it. Talk to you later.”
“Bye.”
The call goes dead.
Pursing my lips, I collapse onto my bed and open the app store on my phone. The Birds and Bees dating app, eh? I read a few reviews before nodding my approval.
“Alright, B&B app, let’s see whatcha got,” I mumble under my breath.
I wait for it to download then create a profile while a small part of me dies inside. Stupid dating apps. I spent years on these things. Countless dates. Countless let downs. Countless reminders that the guy for me just…isn’t out there, and that I’m too average for anything more than a quick, anticlimactic screw. At least they allow you to hide your photos on your profile if you want, adding a sense of mystery and intrigue to the whole thing.
With a sigh, I start scrolling.
And start feeling a lot better.
Rolling onto my back, I keep perusing my options when my jaw drops.
“Are you freaking kidding me?”
I click on the profile.
Benjamin Bennett. Doctor. Not looking for anything serious.
Of course, you’re not, you cheating asshole. I roll my eyes before clicking the icon to view more images.
He’s more good looking than I remember. And while the light blue scrubs were able to leave a pretty memorable impression, the picture of him in a pair of black board shorts as the sun shines down on him is enough to leave me drooling.
And wet.
Again.
He’s married, I remind myself as I clench my legs together. He’s a cheating bastard who’s using a dating site to get off with someone who isn’t his wife.
I steal another peek at his washboard abs. They have a soft dappling of hair that leads to his––
Throwing my phone a few feet away from me, it lands with a soft thump on my gray comforter.
What an ass.
Six Weeks Later
The next month goes by in a blur of puking my guts out, FaceTiming a very apologetic Sway for said puking, and editing a few photo sessions I’d slipped in between puking and FaceTiming.
Now, I’m driving to my doctor’s appointment while trying to keep my frustration in check because, let’s be honest, his married life has nothing to do with me. And despite said frustration, he is a good doctor. He was also really understanding of my situation with Anthony and Sway, which is why I park my car in front of his office and march through the heavy swinging doors before checking in at the front desk.
Tracey brings me back in no time. Weighs me. Takes my blood pressure. And makes me feel like I’m reliving my first appointment.
Does she ever get sick of the monotony?
“Take a seat. Dr. Bennett will be here in just a minute.” She closes the door behind her, leaving me in silence. And with more anxiety than I’ve felt in a long time. Or at least, ya know, since my last appointment.
Surprisingly, a set of knuckles tap against the door less than thirty seconds later before the infamous Benjamin Bennett pops his head through.
“Hello again,” he greets me with that same sure smile.
“Hi,” I return