“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I narrowed my eyes. “He saves lives.”
“Private practice.” He ignored me, hitting the nail on the head once again. “So technically, he fills out growth charts with handwriting nobody can understand and examines butt rashes. Let me guess—he did a tour somewhere to give back to the community. Gain perspective. South America? Asia? No . . .” He paused, grinning so widely I was tempted to punch him square in the face. “Africa. He is committed to the cliché.”
“Yeah, the cliché of saving lives and helping others.” Seriously, my face felt so hot I was one blush away from exploding. “He’s a good man.”
“Clearly. It’s in his fucking name. And you’re here because Ethan the good man has some commitment issues of his own.”
“Excuse me?”
“Why else would he be okay with this arrangement? He wants to see how you and I play out.”
“We are not a thing. Ethan and I met at SeriousSinglesOnly.com,” I couldn’t help but blurt out, and I immediately regretted the decision. It wasn’t something I wanted to advertise, but Chase needed to know he was wrong about at least one thing. I mean, obviously, his very existence was wrong on multiple levels, but I was talking specifically about Ethan.
“You could have met him at WillMarryAnyoneForABlowJob.com, and I would still think the same. He is no more committed to you than you are to me, and you two are forcing this shit upon each other despite you having zero chemistry just because you don’t want to be alone. Called it now. Thank me later.”
“You’re one to talk,” I muttered, returning to the task of scratching off my nail polish. It was a nasty habit I was trying to kick, but the need to taint his precious Tesla with dry flakes of Moroccan Nights pink was overwhelming.
“I can do more than talking,” he mumbled.
“As much as you shutting up is tempting, no thanks.”
I swiveled my head back to my window, to the safety of watching other people in their cars, trying to lower my heartbeat to a normal rate. I thought we were done talking. I hoped so, anyway. And then . . .
“Hope you’re okay with fifty years of lights-off missionary, eating rolled oats for breakfast every day, and naming your pets after trashy reality-TV celebrities your kids idolize.” He kept baiting me. I wanted to crawl out of my skin and jump out the window, but I didn’t trust Chase not to do unholy things with the body I’d shed and leave behind.
I put my hand to my heart, feigning shock. “The horror of living a good, quiet life with an honest man, pets, and kids will haunt me forever. I beg you, stop.”
He sent me a sidelong glance. “You wear sarcasm well.”
I waited for the strike to come. Chase didn’t disappoint.
“Unfortunately, it is the only thing you wear that doesn’t look ridiculous.”
“Can you just shut up? It’s bad enough you forced me into coming here. Don’t offer me unsolicited commentary about my style or analyze my current relationship. I just want someone nice and normal.”
It was hard to admit, even to myself, that now I was even more nervous about sex with Ethan. If he wasn’t going to rip my clothes off and take me against a spiked wall in a BDSM dungeon, I was going to be disappointed, solely based on the fact Chase had been right about pretty much everything else about him.
No, I chided myself. Ethan doesn’t have doubts about dating me. We’d been hanging out for three whole weeks and still hadn’t slept together. He was obviously in it for the long run.
I could see Chase shaking his head in my periphery, chuckling to himself. “You don’t want what normal people want, Mad.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
More silence. My soul was banging its head against the futuristic-looking dashboard. Why did I have a soft spot for people I didn’t know? Why had I thought this was a good idea? But I never really could refuse small acts of kindness. That was why I didn’t narc on Nina from work for bullying me. I knew intern jobs in fashion were hard to come by, so I sucked it up while Nina verbally abused me daily. I kept a chocolate bar in my purse in case others fainted on the subway and needed sugar to spike their blood pressure. It was an Iris Goldbloom trait I’d inherited.