1
Rhys
Despite what my brothers—and most of New York City—think about me, I don’t swipe right that often.
When I do, I put a lot of effort into making sure everyone’s on the same page. I explain my one-night-and-only-one-night intentions up front. I make sure her friends know where she is and that she feels safe. I always, always use condoms.
I’m a divorce lawyer, after all. I know the consequence of rash decisions. And I spent my childhood with men who used, left, and screwed over women—which left me wanting never to be those men.
Still, occasionally things don’t go as planned.
Tonight is one of those nights.
We’re in the hallway outside my apartment when Kirsten—a tall, willowy brunette with curves for miles, blue eyes, and full lips—says, “How do you feel about role-playing?”
I try to hide my grimace. I’ve never role-played, but I did once take an improv class, and it was a total nightmare. I’m at home in front of a courtroom and a judge, but when I have to pretend to be someone else, my brain freezes.
“Not my thing,” I tell her.
She runs a fingertip down the placket of my shirt, pausing to caress each button. “Could you make an exception for me?” she purrs, finger reaching my waist and sliding across the top of my belt buckle.
“Uh…okay?”
I’ll admit it—this is a dick answer, as in my dick answered while my brain was temporarily offline.
“You can be the high school quarterback,” she murmurs. “And I’ll be the nerdy girl who didn’t get chosen for the cheerleading team.”
Okay. I can do this. Right? This is what she needs, and a good one-night stand is all about giving a woman what she needs.
“Your name is Randall Westbrook,” she tells me, fingers still playing with the buckle. “And mine is Kristen Patton.”
“But that’s basically your real name.”
She pouts. “No, my real name is Kirsten Payton.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Alarm bells go off in my head. Years of lawyerly instincts. My gut knows the truth. Something—or someone—is off.
She tilts her head. “You pretend you don’t know I exist, but you’ve been watching me for years. Since we were both freshmen. Wanting me. Wanting to cross all the clique boundaries that keep us apart.” She clasps her free hand to her chest. “That time in PE when you made fun of me, you were trying to make a connection with me.”
Remarkably specific. Are the hallway walls closing in on us?
“Let’s say I’m in the library, searching for a book. You’re going to have to make the first move, Randall,” she whispers. “I’m too scared. You’ve never shown me the slightest sign that you care about my existence.” She turns her body to face the wall, running her fingertips over it in a way I think she means to be seductive.
The alarm bells have become air raid sirens. “Uh, Kirs—Kris—ack, sorry.”
“Kristen,” she prompts.
“Kristen,” I repeat, and then, unable to stop myself, “It seems like maybe high school was a hard time for you?”
“Shh,” she says. “Say, ‘You think I don’t see you, Kristen, but I do.’”
I wince. “I don’t want to bring up any buried trauma for you.”
“Rhys,” she whines. “Say it.”
“You actually want this? You want me to pretend to be some guy who didn’t appreciate you in high school?”
