Hate to Date You (Dating #4) - Monica Murphy Page 0,45

him walk away, my gaze dropping to his perfect ass. Ugh, I need to stop. “I’m going to go change.”

This is not how I envisioned this evening unfolding. Not at all.

I make my way back to my bedroom and quietly shut the door, leaning against it as I contemplate my situation. It’s been a few days since the dinner at Tuscany. Since Carter admitted he wanted to have sex with me again. I can’t deny that I want to have sex with him again too, but I’m wondering…

Is it too risky? And I’m not talking the sexually transmitted disease kind of risk. I’m talking about my heart.

Which is freaking ridiculous, considering I’ve never really fallen hard for a guy before. I’ve had minor dalliances (what a word). A couple of relationships (if you can call them that) that went south fast, and since I didn’t mind, I realized I wasn’t into the relationship. Or the men I was involved with.

I’ve concluded I really am that cool chick who doesn’t want to get into a serious relationship with anyone. Not that I ever say out loud, I’m an anti-relationship cool chick, but I did have a guy tell me that once.

And then he promptly dumped me because he didn’t believe I could actually be that kind of woman.

No woman is, he told me right after a vigorous makeout session that involved hands down each other’s pants. Yes, he dumped me after I gave him a handjob, the asshole.

You’re an illusion. A myth. A fucking unicorn, Stella.

Pushing away from the door, those words keep running through my head as I grab an old sweatshirt and a pair of pajama pants out of my dresser. A unicorn. I’m a sexual unicorn.

It kind of has a fun ring to it.

I quickly change, then pull my hair up into a messy bun on top of my head. Check my reflection in the mirror, because I want to make sure I look ultra-casual yet cute. My mascara is a little smudged—typical after working all day—so I dab my finger under my eyes, wiping it away. I tuck a few wayward strands of hair behind my ears so I don’t look so flyaway, and I check my favorite sweatshirt for stains—I got it from the Mystery Spot when I was a teenager and went there with my family. One of those touristy spots close to where we live yet never go to, because no one ever visits the ones that are in your backyard, am I right?

Anyway, the sweatshirt is green with a yellow Mystery Spot logo on the front, and while it’s not my best color, it’s soft and warm and I still think I look decent.

Decent enough to have sex with, you fantastical sexual unicorn, you?

I shove the taunting voice into a dark corner in my brain, telling it to shut up.

Giving up on trying to make myself presentable, I open the door and march out into the living room, where I find an array of snacks waiting on the coffee table, along with a can of White Claw Cherry Seltzer and one of those fancy IPA beers Carter has in the fridge. There’s popcorn and crackers and sliced cheese, plus a bag of Doritos I keep stashed in the very back of the pantry cabinet for when I crave them while I’m on my period.

Thank God I’m not on it, but just seeing that giant red bag makes me instantly want my period snack.

“Oh. Hey.” Carter emerges from the kitchen to find me staring at the table with a little smile on my face. “I thought we could start with snacks and eventually work our way to ordering a pizza.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t eat pizza.”

His jaw drops open and he rests his hand on his chest, staggering backward a little. “What the hell, Stella? You don’t eat pizza? You’re a freaking Italian!”

“Just because I’m Italian doesn’t mean I have to love pizza.” I lift my chin, feeling defensive. “Besides, it’s one giant, greasy carb bomb.”

“Please. You eat pasta constantly. You’re all about the greasy carb bombs. Besides, pizza tastes fucking amazing,” he says with the utmost sincerity. I can’t help but laugh at him and he grins, and oh, it’s a sight to see. I haven’t seen him smile that big since he’s moved in and my breath catches in my throat the longer I stare at him.

And the longer he stares, the more his smile starts to fade. Our gazes lock,