Ayla

That man.

The bulk of my stay in LA was spent thinking about Rhett. No, not thinking. Obsessing. I’ve never known a man so intense, and I’ve never felt the kind of euphoria I feel with him—with anyone else.

I determined, over the course of several sleepless nights, that what we have ... whatever it may be ... has to be real. I couldn’t be dreaming it. When you’re dreaming, you don’t feel pinches. You don’t feel anything because it isn’t real. With Rhett, I feel it all: the gaping void when I walked away, the bittersweet longing when I knew I couldn’t text him, the bloom of warmth when I recalled the way he felt inside me, and the rush of blood to my head when I thought about seeing him again.

It wasn’t until I was on my flight back to New York, when the flight attendants were preparing the cabin for landing, that I made a decision.

I could see him again.

I could tell him the truth.

But not until I told him how I felt about him first.

So that’s what I did. I went to him. I told him I liked him. And just as I suspected, he confessed that he was starting to like me too. If he knows how I feel—that I genuinely care for him—maybe he’ll understand when I finally confess everything.

And next time, I won’t let him talk me out of it. I won’t beat around the bush. I’ll come out and say: I’m Bryce’s sister. And I’ve known who you were all along. Just like that.

My phone blows up first thing Wednesday morning.

Rhett: WHERE DO YOU LIVE?

My heart skips, and my blood runs cold. This is too soon, and I need to more time. I have a plan, and this sure as hell isn’t part of it.

Me: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Nothing like an extremely generic, subject-changing question to buy me some time.

Rhett: JUST GOT DONE WORKING OUT. WANT TO BRING YOU COFFEE. THAT’S WHAT YOU DO WHEN YOU LIKE SOMEONE, RIGHT?

Me: I’VE ALREADY HAD MY COFFEE TODAY. THANKS FOR THE OFFER.

I smack my clenched fist against my forehead. I’m such a bad liar.

Rhett: THEN I’LL BRING YOU SOMETHING ELSE. JUST TELL ME WHERE YOU LIVE.

I don’t respond right away. Flinging the covers off the bed, I begin to straighten up the guest room, and then I stop. What am I doing? He can’t come here. My cheeks warm, and my armpits tingle—a telltale sign that I’m nervous as hell.

Rhett: I WANT TO FINISH WHAT WE STARTED YESTERDAY. YOU LEFT ME HANGING.

Me: I WASN’T GOING TO FUCK YOU WITH YOUR BROTHER DOWN THE HALL. I’M A LADY! ;-)

Rhett: LOCKE’S GOING TO BE STAYING WITH ME FOR A WHILE, SO WE’RE GOING TO NEED A NEW PLACE TO FUCK… SPEAKING OF FUCK… WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU LIVE?

Again, I don’t respond. I don’t know how to get out of this, and I should because I’m a writer and writers are supposed to be creative. I reach for a notebook on the nightstand and a pen and I start scribbling a list of excuses, all of which are lame and all of which he’ll see right through. I cross out idea #4, which consists of telling him I’m on my period and that we can’t screw anyway but we could do dinners and movies and whatever else—anything to keep the focus away from beds and apartments for a little more time. That could’ve bought me at least a week, but it’s probably too early in the relationship to start discussing Aunt Flo. Idea #2 isn’t any better, telling him I’m having the place sprayed for bugs (gross) and I’m staying with a friend.

Rhett: ARE YOU A HOARDER? YOU’RE A HOARDER. WRITERS ARE ECCENTRIC. IT MAKES SENSE. YOU’RE TOTALLY CRAZY. I KNEW IT.

Me: I’M NOT A HOARDER.

Rhett: OKAY SO…

Me: THE PLACE WHERE I’M STAYING ... IT DOESN’T BELONG TO ME. I DON’T FEEL COMFORTABLE HOSTING.

There. Boom. Perfect. So simple! Why didn’t I think of that before? Plus, it’s the truth.

Rhett: OKAY FINE. YOU LIKE HOTEL SEX?

Me: YES, BUT I DON’T WANT TO FEEL LIKE AN ESCORT OR A MISTRESS, SO YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO BUY ME DRINKS FIRST, AND SINCE I DON’T LIKE TO DRINK ON AN EMPTY STOMACH, YOU’LL HAVE TO BUY ME DINNER BEFORE THAT.

Rhett: YOU WANT THE BOYFRIEND EXPERIENCE?

My stomach swirls.

Me: I DO. AND AREN’T WE DATING? I LIKE YOU. YOU LIKE ME. SHOULDN’T YOU TAKE ME ON DATES AND STUFF NOW?

Rhett: YOU SHOULD KNOW I’M NOT A WINING AND DINING TYPE OF BOYFRIEND.

Me: SO IT’S OFFICIAL? YOU’RE MY BOYFRIEND?

Rhett: SMOOTH.

Three bubbles fill the screen, and he takes forever and a day before sending his next text.

Rhett: YES, AYLA. I’M YOUR BOYFRIEND.

I’m grinning so hard my face hurts. Rhett Carson is my boyfriend. It’s a weird, cozy little feeling I never saw coming in a million years.

Rhett: I’LL PICK YOU UP AT EIGHT.