The man is an egomaniac.

Breathing heavy, I lean against the back of the front door for support, shocked at myself and my own actions.

I kissed him.

I’ve never done anything like that before, manhandled a guy and then put my mouth on his. I’ve always been the type of woman who let the man take the lead—I’ve even had men ask if it was okay for them to kiss me, asking for permission first.

Which, okay—sometimes kills the mood.

My point is, kissing someone first is not in my wheelhouse, let alone kissing someone I’ve used karate on.

Breathing heavy, I stare into my new townhouse, down the entry hall and into the living room.

This is your new life.

Since I’ve been back in Chicago, I’ve been to a bachelorette party, attended a wedding, flipped a man, gone on a non-date with him, flipped him again, made out with him in the rain, then shut the door in his face. Metaphorically speaking, but still. He was trying to come in and I shot him down.

All in a few weeks’ time.

I remove my waterlogged shoes.

Begin unbuttoning my ruined blouse, one button at a time, peeling it off my damp skin and discarding it on the floor to work the fly of my jeans. Those don’t come off as easily, suctioned to my body like a second skin and I have to tug to get them down, over my hips.

Leaving it all in the hall, I make for the shower to wash away the memory of Tripp Wallace’s smile. The frown. The look of utter surprise when I bent forward to kiss him. I’m hoping the warm spray of shower water will erase the feelings I didn’t hope to feel, hoping they’ll wash right down the drain.ThirteenTripp“Hey Mom, what’s going on?” I can barely read the time on my phone my eyes are so blurry. Even Chewy is too tired to fully commit to waking up for a phone call from Gramma.

I’m glad she didn’t FaceTime.

My bedsheets are a mess from all the tossing and turning I did in the middle of the night.

Couldn’t stop dreaming of a certain someone flat on her back on the wet ground.

“Are you awake?”

Am I awake? Yes.

Am I out of bed? No.

What kind of question is this? Of course I’m up; judging from the damn light shining through the window, the morning is half over and what’s Mom going to do about it if I’m not?

I scowl. “Unfortunately I am.”

It’s one of my rare days off this month; was it necessary for my mother to be the first person of the day hounding me?

“I thought I raised you better than this.” She sniffs. “Your brother was always the one who gave me the most trouble, but that’s only because he was bored at school and needed constant stimulation. I could always count on you to do the right thing…”

She sniffs again.

“Mom, are you crying?”

“…responsible one, and I never had to worry about you. Then you joined that team full of fast men with fast cars and women who use you…”

Huh? What the fuck is she yammering on about?

Fast cars and loose women, apparently.

“Mom. What’s wrong?”

What the hell happened that’s got her all worked up?

“Did Buzz say something?” This has to be about my idiot brother and I wonder what he could have done to piss her off and make her cry.

But Mom isn’t listening to a thing I’m saying, too busy carrying on and weeping into the phone. “…and then your father turns on SportsCenter and that’s all they’re talking about this morning.” Sniff, sniff. “Goddammit, Tripp, I said to take her out for drinks so you could be photographed together, not hump the girl in broad daylight, in the middle of the damn sidewalk!”

Mom rarely curses.

I scratch my bedhead. Hump the girl? Broad daylight? “What are you talking about?”

“Turn on your television!” Her blabbering is now at a screech and I hold the phone away from my ear, fearful that my eardrums are about to be besieged again. “Once again, the story is everywhere. Everywhere! You’re either going to become the most popular athlete or the most hated man in America.”

I’m still confused—and not because I’ve only just woken up. I genuinely have no idea what she’s talking about.

Reaching into my shorts, I scratch at my balls. “Why would I be the most hated man in America? I took Chandler on a date just like we planned. I was polite, we had an okay time, I took her home—end of story.”

Sort of.

I leave out the part where Chandler knocked me on my ass (again) and kissed me senseless in the rain. She put the moves on me, not the other way around.

Shocking to say the least.

Exciting as fuck, coming from little ol’ her.

I yawn, bored. “The only paparazzi around were at the front of the restaurant, just like my publicist arranged, and we spent the rest of the evening alone.”