Unzipped by Lauren Blakely

Author:Lauren Blakely [Blakely, Lauren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little Dog Press
Published: 2018-12-14T05:00:00+00:00

14

Tom

It’s a little hard for me to think about Cassandra with Finley in my hotel room. The crazy-haired blonde with the delicious lips instantly makes herself at home, plunking her little purse on the table and flopping down on the love seat. I sit across from her because if I’m next to her, I won’t be able to think about anything but kissing her again.

That kiss fried circuits in my brain. I’ve never had a kiss like that before.

Not with anyone. Definitely not with Cassandra.

And I’m honestly not thinking about Cassandra anymore because Finley’s all I can think about.

Except now I need to think about Cassie because Finley won’t let it go. And what if she’s right?

“Why didn’t you mention that teeny little detail?” she presses.

I search for an answer, but honestly, it’s simple. “It didn’t seem like a big deal. She didn’t say a thing about me texting her goodbye when she dumped me.”

As Cassie’s name drifts over my lips, it feels weirder to say. Since I can’t stop staring at Finley’s lips and remembering the way they felt. I want to taste her sweet mouth again, to feel her melt against me like she did on the porch, like she’d never been kissed in that kind of heart-stopping way. But judging from the horrified look on her face, Finley’s not thinking about me that way.

I try to erase that hot-as-hell moment from my mind as she stares at me with the widest eyes. “You didn’t think it was a big deal? That was absolutely why she broke up with you!”

I recoil. “No, that’s not it. She said it was because I was a slacker.”

“You were a slacker in not saying goodbye properly to her.”

I repeat Cassie’s breakup words. They were clear and simple. A blueprint for what I needed to do. Try again when you get your act together. Show up when you know what you want.

Finley lets out a long, frustrated groan, shoveling her hands through her hair, messing it up even more. My eyes drift toward her hair, and now I want to get my hands in it and mess it up too.

“You took off after sex, Tom,” Finley says, exasperation thick in her tone.

“My buddy was coming into town. His flight had landed early. I had to pick him up.”

Her face contorts like she’s going to explode with word bombs, aimed straight at me. She takes a deep breath. “Let me get this straight,” she says like a detective recapping the events of a crime. “After you were done sticking your dick in her, you put on your clothes?”

I laugh, rolling my eyes. “If you must put it that way . . . yes.”

“And presumably she did the same?”

“Well, she went into the bathroom to get dressed.”

Finley holds up a finger. “Correction—she went into the bathroom to do the Mrs. Obama.”

“What?” I ask, incredulous.

“It’s this Amy Schumer bit. She says all the greatest women have to deal with the same issue after sex, even Mrs. Obama.

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