Project Produce(41)
He pushed away from the wall, and took a step toward me.
“H-Here. Your c-clothes. Change in bathroom.” I threw his things at his chest and then ran into the kitchen. Space. I needed lots and lots of space from this man. I could barely breathe when I was around him, let alone think.
“Callie, I--”
“You should go. It’s late.”
He narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t over.”
“This never should have started.”
He hardened his jaw. “Why not? We’re both adults, and for the record, I’m not looking for a one-night-stand. I happen to like you.”
“Yeah, that’s what they all say.”
He stared at me like he was trying to figure out his next move. “Forget it,” he muttered. “You’ve got issues.”
“I’ve got issues?” I glared at him. “You’re the one with the problem, and I know all about it.”
He had the nerve to chuckle. “The only problem I have right now is the mixed messages you keep sending me. One minute you want me, just like I want you.” He narrowed his eyes. “The next, you’re tossing me off the couch and telling me I’ve got problems.”
I looked away, and a moment later, he left the room. Relief flooded me. Wanting to use someone’s body for self-gratification was a problem, and from my experience, men only wanted to get close to me because of the scandal. They thought I was some porn queen who’d give them an experience of a lifetime.
Dylan might not know about the scandal, but I knew he only wanted sex. He was obsessed with it, and I was convenient. Not a good combination for getting my life back on track.
Five minutes later, he stepped out of the bathroom, looking just as delicious fully dressed as he had in almost nothing.
He slipped his still damp coat on and then peeked out my blinds. “Looks like my buddy’s done over there.” He faced me. “I doubt you’ll have a problem with that Peeping Tom again.” When he raised his eyes to mine, his were distant. “Sorry. I crossed the line.”
“You didn’t do it alone.” I gave him a shaky smile. “Figuring out what I want to do with my life is too important to me. I’m too old to keep screwing up, and honestly, I just can’t deal with this right now. Friends?”
“Sure,” he agreed. “Friends.” He stuck out his hand.
“Good.” I slipped mine in his, feeling the magnetic pull clear to my soul.
He shook once and then pulled his free. “I’ll let myself out. Don’t forget the gym tomorrow. And remember to lock the door behind me.”
“Always,” I responded, glad we’d come to an understanding. It was what I wanted, what I needed. But I hated to see him go. I locked the door behind him and just stood there, not having a clue what to do next. My head might say this was for the best, but my body sang the blues.
Big time.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning, Professor Butthead smiled wide at our class. I tried to listen as his star pupil, Ms. I’ll-Brownnose-For-A-Good-Grade, gave her progress report on how AIDS affects today’s teenagers and their decision to have sex.
“Good job, Mindy. Keep going in that direction and you’ll have an excellent project. Well done.”
Well, no fooling, well done. How hard was it for a teenager to go around and ask other teenagers about sex, condoms, and AIDS? Try being a woman my age, getting a man to tell you the truth about how the size of his winkie affects his sex life. So far, the men I’d been able to talk to thought I was a nympho, and the teenagers thought I was desperate. Either way, I looked and felt like an idiot. I stared out the window and tried not to fall asleep.
“Ms. MacDonald,” a familiar voice echoed in my ears.
“Huh?” I turned. Professor Butthead stood inches from me, his breath reeking of leftover egg salad.
“Ms. MacDonald.” He glowered. “I realize you must think Mindy’s project doesn’t affect you since you’re hardly a teenager, but it’s rude not to pay attention, nonetheless.” He arched a brow as though daring me to say something.
Well, I wasn’t stupid. If I ticked this guy off any more, I’d fail for sure, and then I’d never get my answers. Besides, I was through failing at everything. I forced a smile and said, “I think she’s off to a good start; however, if I were her--”
“Well, you’re not. I suggest you worry about your own project. You’re the only one in class who hasn’t given a progress report on how you’re coming along.” He crossed his arms. “So, let’s hear it. Or aren’t you prepared?”