Go team, go!

He shakes his head. “This happens every time. It’s like the moment we start getting hot, your head goes somewhere else. If you don’t want to have sex, that’s fine. Really. But I can’t keep doing this almost-but-not-really thing when you’re not into it. It makes me feel like an ass. Like I’m pushing you or something.”

“No, no, no. You’re not pushing and you’re not an ass at all. It’s me. I swear I can do better. I will do better.”

I stare at his bare chest, shadows of orange lining his hard muscles, and try to feel something naughty.

Nothing.

Maybe I am a lesbian.

He sighs. “I don’t want you to do better, Sarah. I want you to want it.”

“I do want it.”

Right?

Right?

He looks at the bed for a moment before slowly climbing off and pulling his shirt back on. “Why don’t you get dressed and we can talk about this later, okay?” He attempts a smile, but all I can do is nod back.

I hide my face in my hands and let out a long, heavy breath. Why don’t I want to have sex with my superhot and totally sweet boyfriend?

What is wrong with me?

What is wrong with me?

I pull into the inn, sexually frustrated and generally pissed at the universe as I park in the back of the lot. Everything was going fine with Savannah—that was her name, right? Savannah? Susanna?—until she mentioned she was an art major, and any hotness I’d hoped to indulge in with her instantly evaporated.

I turn off the engine and run a hand through my hair.

Art? ART? What the hell, universe?

The girl had a streak of green paint on the inside of her elbow, for God’s sake. And she was blonde. And smelled like flowers. She was two stained sneakers and a green-eyed scowl away from being Pixie, so I smoothly excused myself from her company and went in search of a different distraction. But by that time every girl in the mansion was either trashed or taken, and really, who was I kidding? No distraction in the world would numb the hot ache in my chest.

Damn Pixie. Moving in next door and fucking up my sex life.

As I exit my truck, a black car pulls up to the front of the inn. I look at the time. 3:35 a.m. This is either a senior citizen arriving very early for check-in, which has happened, or it’s some kind of trouble.

I stand in the shadows of the tall willow trees beside the lot and watch as the passenger door opens and a figure climbs out.

Despite the darkness and the distance between us, I instantly know it’s Pixie. Her straightened hair hangs down her back, shining in the moonlight against her sweater as she steps forward in the same man-eating skirt she had on earlier.

Trouble it is.

A guy I’ve never seen before climbs out of the driver’s seat, and I straighten my shoulders.

Maybe he’s a cabdriver in the nicest cab ever. Maybe he was the designated driver tonight and Pixie got a little tipsy. Maybe he’s a gay friend who gives her pointers on what to wear, like that damn skirt.

The designated gay cabdriver leans down and starts kissing Pixie.

Or maybe he’s the icing on this cake of despair I’ve been eating all night.

Watching them kiss makes the ache burn hotter, and I absently push a hand against my sternum.

They part ways and Icing Boy drives away as Pixie lets herself inside the inn. I wait a moment before leaving the shadows and following after her. The front door creaks a little when I step inside. The lights are dimmed and there’s not a soul around as I quietly walk through the lobby toward the east wing staircase.

Pixie’s at the foot of the stairs, silently cursing as she rummages around in the large purse slung over her shoulder. The floorboards beneath my feet groan as I move forward, and she whips her head up, relaxing a twinge when she sees me.

“Oh,” she says. “Hey.”

I slow my pace. “Hey.”

Her purse buzzes and she drops down on the bottom stair, effectively blocking my path upstairs as she starts clawing through its contents.

I shove my hands in my pockets and wait. “Lose something?”

She sighs heavily as she digs. “I can’t find my phone because I packed liked a hoarder but I know it’s here because it keeps ringing and I’m pretty sure it’s Jenna because she’s the only person I know who would blow up my phone in the middle of the night and I don’t know why she’s calling but now I’m thinking there’s some kind of emergency which would be just perfect because my night can’t get any better and why do I have so many pens in my purse?” She holds up a fistful of pens. “WHY.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling at the flustered expression on her face.

A happy lilt sings from the depths of her bag, and she immediately drops the pens—which fall onto the step beside her before rolling off in every direction—and starts yanking things out of her purse, tossing them aside.

A shirt.

A granola bar.

A sketchpad.

A scarf.

More pens.

With the path to my room blocked and nothing better to do with my hands, I start gathering the runaway pens.

By the fourth ring, Pixie finds her phone and answers with a rushed “What happened? Did someone die?”

“Finally,” I hear a relieved voice say from the other line. “Where are you? I came back to Matt’s apartment to drop off Tweedledee and Tweedledum—”

“Jenna.”

“But you’re not here. I thought you guys were going back to his place.”

Pixie glances at me, then drops her eyes. “We did. But then I had Matt drive me back to the inn.”

Matt.

I keep my gaze on the floor as I finish collecting pens.

“The inn?” Jenna says. “Matt’s staying with you at the inn?”

“No. He dropped me off—can we talk about this later?”

“He dropped you off?”

“Jenna. Please.”

“Fine. We’ll talk in the morning—ah! Gross. Ethan, I swear to God if you vomit on—ugh!” Muffled commotion comes from the other line. “God! Sarah, do me a favor and tell that boyfriend of yours that the next time we all go out, he’s in charge of his drunk roommates.”

Boyfriend.

Pixie and I lock gazes.

Matt the Boyfriend.

Pixie’s not mine, and she never has been, so I have no right to care about Matt the Boyfriend. But still my stomach twists in an ugly way.

“I am not drunk!” yells a male voice in the background.

“You’re hammered, Jack!” Jenna yells back.

The male voice laughs. “Hammered Jack. Jack hammer. I’m a jackhammer.”

“You’re a jackass,” she shouts.

“So we’ll talk in the morning?” Pixie says to distant Jenna.

“What? Oh, yeah. In the morning. Later. Ethan, don’t you dare—”

Pixie hangs up and drops her phone back into her purse. “Sorry about that. My friends are, uh… interesting.”

I nod. “They sound fun.”

“Yeah.”

She clears her throat and quickly starts shoving the rest of her discarded things back into the purse. I hand her the collected pens and she takes them without making eye contact, tossing them back into her bag before resuming her frenzied cleaning. I help gather the remaining items.

We reach for her scarf at the same time and our fingers accidentally brush. We both jerk our hands back as if touching each other is poisonous, and suddenly I’m keenly aware of all things Pixie. The curve of her neck, the scent of her shampoo, the shape of her lips, the single undone button at the top of her sweater…