Free She's the One: COunting on Love, Book 1 by Erin Nicholas Page A

also wasn’t into lying.
    “So why aren’t you staying?” She pulled out of his arms, but stood facing him squarely.
    “Let me ask you something first,” he said. “What was with getting Jennifer involved when you and I were on the couch?”
    Amanda didn’t blush or stammer. “I was trying to make sure you were as into everything as I was.”
    “What made you think that would do it?” he asked with a slight frown.
    “Because it wasn’t until she was touching me that you came out on the dance floor.”
    He felt his eyes widen. “Seriously? You think she was the reason? You were the reason, Mandi. Because you asked me to look out for you and not let anyone touch you under your dress. Remember? The guy was going under your skirt.”
    “Oh.” She seemed to be recalling the moment. Then she said, “But the only reason you interrupted was because I asked you to keep an eye on me?”
    “Right.”
    “So, if he’d tried that, but I hadn’t said that, you would have let it happen?”
    Ryan looked into her eyes for a moment. See, this was one of those complicated, mixed-up emotions that just seemed like such a waste of time. “Are you asking if I would have been jealous? Yes. I’d envy anyone who got to touch you. But would I have interrupted it? Not if you were enjoying it. If you’d given any indication that you didn’t want or like his—or her—touch, I would have stepped in. But if you liked it, then no. That would be your call, not mine.”
    She watched him equally as long as he had her. Then she said, “You’re the kind of guy to step in if any woman needed some help.”
    “Yes.”
    He was. Sometimes people treated each other like crap and he didn’t like it. If someone was being harassed somehow, he’d step in. Temporarily. That’s why being a paramedic fit him so well. He could do a lot of very good work, but it was up to someone else to really dig in and figure out the long-term, complicated things, like what kind of surgery someone needed to repair their broken hip or what kind of social services they needed to get out of the abusive situation they were in.
    His mom had taught him to “as far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons”, as it said in the copy of Max Ehrmann’s “Desiderata” she had hanging on their living room wall. But the poem also said “Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.” He was happy with doing his part and trusting others to do theirs. His part was the upfront, in-the-moment, right-now needs. The long-term, later-on stuff was someone else’s forte.
    Amanda finally nodded. “I thought so.”
    He wasn’t sure what that meant, and he’d learned a long time ago that it was often best to just leave it alone when women said something he didn’t fully understand.
    “So, I’m going to get going.”
    “But…this wasn’t all that Tim thought we did together.”
    He nodded and turned back to open the door. The sooner he was in the hallway with a solid, locked door between them, the better. Eventually he was going to smack himself for walking away from Amanda. He could have her. She wanted it. She wasn’t too drunk. But…
    “The thing is, Amanda, I’m not into it now.” It was only kind of a lie.
    “You’re not into it now?” she repeated. Then her cheeks got pink. “Okay.” She swallowed hard. “Fine. Good night.”
    Part of him—a very big part of him—wanted to ignore her reaction, pretend it really was fine and walk out the door. He even took a step closer to the doorway. But he couldn’t do it. His mom was a woman, and when she said she was fine, she was. If she wasn’t fine, she also told him that. But he had learned in his thirty-one years of life that women like his mother were rare. Very rare.
    “What are you thinking?” he asked, gripping the doorknob one final time before letting go and letting the door swing shut.
    “Nothing.” Now she did kick her shoes off and again hugged her arms tight across her stomach.