Page 22 of Sunday Morning

He continued to shake his head. “I’m just … frustrated.”

“At me?”

“At us.” He opened his intense blue eyes. “This was a stupid idea. We’ve waited this long; what’s a little longer?”

I laughed. “A little longer? Time’s running out.Whatever. We don’t have to be each other’s firsts.” As soon as I said the words, I regretted them. I was guilting him into having sex with me.

Father would be so proud.

He frowned. “You act like I did this on purpose. Besides. You know the second we do it, you’ll have instant remorse because you act like you don’t care what your dad thinks, but you do. You end up doing whatever he asks you to do.”

I climbed out of the car and tried to balance on one foot while threading my other into my pantyhose with dirt stuck to the bottom of my feet. “Well, he didn’t ask me to have sex with you, but here we are.”

“Nothaving sex,” Matt said, buttoning his shirt.

“Because you fumbled the stupid condom.”

“You mean the condom that I had to figure out how to get? And then we weren’t even in a bed. Instead, we’re crammed into the front seat of my car, and you were crowding me when I was trying to roll it on. What did you expect to happen?”

“You’re such a romantic.” I hiked up my pantyhose and stepped into my dress while he slid across the bench seat.

“Whatever,” he mumbled.

Not a peep was uttered on the way to his house to change our clothes for post-prom.

Matt didn’t open my door or wait for me.

“You beat your mom home,” Wesley said, glancing up from the newspaper when Matt stepped into the kitchen, letting the door to the porch nearly hit me in the face.

“We have to change our clothes. We won’t be here long,” he said on his way up the stairs.

“How was the dance?” Wesley asked me before I had achance to sneak around the corner to the main-level bathroom.

“It was good.”

He gave me a quick glance before returning his attention to the paper.

I turned left.

“Remember to use the upstairs bathroom if you need a toilet,” Wesley said.

With a sigh, I headed up the stairs with my bag over my shoulder. Just as I reached the bathroom, the door opened. Isaac stood in front of me wearing nothing but a faded pair of jeans and a smirk. He took the liberty of inspecting me without a hint of regret.

And I instinctively did the same to him. Earlier, I thought Matt looked like a man, but I was wrong. Isaac wastheman—sculpted from hard muscles. He didn’t have tattoos on his torso, so I had no excuse for staring for so long.

“I need to change my clothes,” I murmured, checking my chin for drool.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

I forced my gaze to his scruffy face. “The dance was fine.”

“Not the dance.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“The other festivities,” he said.

He was probably drunk. That seemed like the most logical explanation for his random babbling.