Better Than the Movies

I have a nerd-level fascination with movie soundtracks.

that soap or deodorant?”

His big hand landed on the shifter, and his eyebrows crinkled when he looked over at me. “Pardon?”

“You smell really good, but it isn’t your usual scent.”

He didn’t put the car in drive but instead just looked at me. “My usual scent?”

“Don’t act like I’m weird. Your normal cologne is kind of, like, piney, but tonight you smell more… I don’t know… spicy.” The image of him shirtless and putting on deodorant popped into my head, and I cleared my throat, sending it away.

His voice was deep and kind of rumbly as he gave a throaty chuckle. “Holy shit, Liz Buxbaum knows my scent.”

He looked at me and shrugged like that explained everything.

“But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.”

But my first-grade brain just couldn’t compute. Why would Bridget give up the cuter one—the charming one—for the person who was the equivalent of one ginormous yawn? How did that even make sense?

Mr. Right—the nice-guy, dependable version—could be waiting around the very next corner.

Which was why I was always at the ready.

It was only a matter of time before it finally happened for me.

Two weeks—that was the average length of my relationships, if you could even call them that.
Here’s how it usually went: I would see a cute guy, daydream about him for weeks and totally build him up in my mind to be my one-and-only soul mate. The usual high school pre-relationship stuff always began with the greatest of hopes. But by the end of two weeks, before we even got close to official, I almost always got hit with the Ick. The death sentence to all blossoming relationships.
Definition of the Ick: A dating term that refers to a sudden cringe feeling one gets when they have romantic contact with someone and

“But I also thought that you would jump at the chance to, um, to ‘hit it.’ ”

That made him smirk and look at me with one of his dark eyebrows raised. “That is disgusting, Buxbaum.”

“Right?”

“Is that the first time you’ve ever said those words?”

“Now, mind you, I just wanted to crawl off into a corner and die
from my horrific battle wounds. But if Mrs. Buxbaum needed me, I was damn well going to help.

black beret.

I laughed in the quiet of my room.

Me: I wasn’t going to ask, but that sounds hot.

Wes: It is. I’ve got heatstroke up in here.