How to Date the Guy You Hate by Julie Kriss Page 0,50

that best.”

I paused, surprised. I’d done a stint for a photographer as a stylist—the person behind the scenes who arranges products in the shot, preps the food for food shoots, or styles the clothes on the model for clothing shoots. I actually had enjoyed the work, but the photographer I worked for was demanding and overbearing, so I’d quit. I hadn’t even known Dad had noticed. “You think I should do that?”

“You were happy when you did that, and I seem to recall you were good at it.”

I had been. “Well, it’s too late,” I said. “The photographer wasn’t impressed when I quit, and that was months ago. I doubt she’ll want me back.”

“Find another photographer, then. You’re worth it. You can do anything, you know. As long as you’re yourself.”

Oddly, that made me feel better. My dad had his faults, but he’d always cared about me. I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling again. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Anytime.”

I put the phone down. It was quiet in the B and B, but the walls were thin. It was an old building. I heard the rush of the ocean outside, the radiators creak, someone coughing lightly in one of the rooms. A stranger, one of the guests I didn’t know.

None of these people knew me. I understood that now. Maybe it had taken a trip all the way to Cape Cod to see it, but there it was. I wasn’t going to get what I wanted from Aunt Janice or Stephanie or Kyle or anyone else. My dad knew me, in his own way, but even he didn’t know me the way I needed to be known. The way I wanted to be known.

I was starting to think that maybe only one person could know me completely if I let him. And he was in another room in this old house, sleeping.

As if he knew I was thinking about him, my phone buzzed with a text from Jason. You awake?

My heart did a slow, lazy pulse in my chest. He’d looked so good at dinner, in his dress pants and dress shirt, a narrow belt, that sexy watch. He’d been nice and charming and good. Just like I’d told him to be. My fake boyfriend.

Yes, I wrote. Can’t sleep.

Me neither, he wrote back. And then he texted me a picture. It was taken looking down at himself, lying on the pull-out couch. He was wearing dark drawstring pants, and even looking down the long length of his body, I could see that his bare feet were hanging off the end of the bed.

I snorted a laugh, then covered my mouth when I heard how loud it was. I looked at the picture again. He’d caught a strip of his bare stomach in the photo, his flat abs and the line of hair disappearing into his pants. And then those long, muscled legs under the thin fabric. It was funny and breathtakingly sexy at the same time.

I was wearing a t-shirt and panties. Quickly I pulled the shirt off, then took a picture down my body. My breasts, my stomach, my legs on my narrow bed, with only the panties on. I texted it to him quickly, with my heart in my mouth, before I could chicken out.

There was a second of silence, and then he wrote: Holy shit

You like? I asked.

Take those off, he wrote back.

I bit my lip. My God, we were dirty-texting. From different rooms in the same building. I’d never done anything like this before in my life.

Maybe, I wrote. Are you begging?

Take them off, he wrote again. And then he added: Imagine I’m doing it.

My breathing hitched. I set the phone down and slid my hands down my body. I lifted my hips and slid my panties off—and I imagined it was Jason’s hands on me, sliding the thin fabric down my legs.

Okay, I wrote when I picked up the phone again. I did it.

Picture, he replied immediately.

No way was I texting a naked picture of myself. I have a better idea, I told him.

My phone buzzed. THERE IS NO BETTER IDEA.

I smiled. Are you turned on? I typed. Take your pants off. Picture me naked. Now picture me spreading my legs.

There was a moment’s pause, and I knew he was doing it. As if he could see me, I opened my legs, the sheets cool against my heated skin.

Very nice, he wrote. That’s very nice.

I was starting to throb. I pictured him looking at