“Yeah, but it’s not like this guy had a sparkling personality.”
“Maybe I don’t either.”
“Come on, Quinn, cut the bullshit. I know this whole low self-esteem thing is kind of your jam, but youknowyou’re more interesting than that guy. Funnier, smarter, way more fun to—”
“Jesus, how long were you watching us?”
“I was just trying to help,” Ryder said, ignoring the question a second time. “As a friend.”
“By posing as my ex and telling the guy I had a twelve-inch dick.”
“Nine inches,” Ryder corrected. “Was that big enough? I know some gay guys are kinda into size stuff. Maybe I should have emphasized girth too. My friend says—”
“I don’t care what your friend says.You’renotmyfriend, and that was a fucked up thing to do.”
“I was just trying to talk you up. Boost your confidence—and maybe get that guy to up his game a little, because seriously, Quinn, talking to him was like talking to a used tissue.”
I hated that this observation, at least, was one hundred percent accurate.
“And we could be friends,” he continued. “If you want to be. Here, let me find another guy for you. Can I look at your app? I bet we can find someone better.”
“What the hell? No. I barely know you.”
“I’ve kissed you.” Ryder made this sound like an eminently reasonable counter-argument.
“I paid you for that.”
“No, you paid for my company. The kiss was free. Speaking of which…” He trailed off and bit his lip. I couldn’t read the look he was giving me, but a moment later, his hand was on my shoulder, and his lips were on a crash course with my face.
“Jesus, are you drunk?” I asked, putting a hand on his chest to stop him from getting any closer.
Ryder blinked and stepped back, then looked down at my hand. I dropped it and folded my arms across my chest.
“I’ve been here since four o’clock,” he said. “Had to drink something to justify holding onto the bar stool. You must have walked right past me when you came in. Didn’t even notice me. Kind of rude, don’t you think?”
He gave me a playful smile, but I was in no mood.
“Go home, Ryder.”
“What? No, Quinn, I—look, I’m sorry, okay. Tell me how I can fix this, and I will.”
“You can’t.”
He made a pained face. “I came down here to apologize for Friday, and I feel like every time I try to make things better with you, I just make them worse.
“Apologize for Friday?” I said suspiciously. “What about Friday?”
“For kissing you. I feel like I might have crossed a boundary or something. I just wanted to say I was sorry.”
“By attempting to kiss me again right now?”
He grinned sheepishly. “I got nervous, waiting. Thought you might yell at me. Might have had a bit too much liquid courage. Blame it on the alcohol.”
“No, I’ll blame it on you being a fucking idiot.”
“Well, that works too.” He gave me a serious look—or as serious a look as he could, given the amount he’d had to drink. “Truly, though, I did want to say I’m sorry. And I am. Sorry. Very. Did I like, violate you?”
I wanted to shake him.