Page 15 of Not That Into You

“You and Cameron?” Hayley laughs, clutching her stomach. “You and Cameron?”

The other three women alternate between shaking their heads and joining in Hayley’s laughter. I narrow my eyes, beginning to feel a little offended. I mean, I get it, but still. There’s no cause for hysteria.

Hayley’s shoulders shake as she barely gets out an, “Oh my god,” before laughing again.

I fish an ice cube out of my drink and chuck it at her head. “You suck.”

“I’m sorry.” She finally sits back up, attempting to get herself back under control. “Oh, shoot! Darn it. Now I wish I could go to Mr. Stanhope’s birthday party. I’d pay money to see you and Cameron there.”

“Except I’m not going.”

“Sure, sure. But still.” Her face scrunches up in thought. “Dang. No, I can’t get out of work. We’ve got a photoshoot in upstate New York that weekend.”

Hayley works as an assistant photoshoot stylist at a lifestyle magazine. Our apartment reflects her eye for interior design as well as her more generous bank account.

Claire looks at Hayley. “Can I go in your place?”

“I wish, but it’s invite-only. Otherwise, I’d send you with a spy camera.”

The corner of Gina’s mouth lifts. “Hey, I bet Elliot could wrangle an invite.”

Claire’s eyes gleam. “Oooooh.”

I give her a death stare. “No.”

“But—”

“No. I’m not going. Elliot’s not going. You’re not going.”

“But—”

“I’m not going to pretend to be Cameron’s girlfriend. End of story.”

Hayley wiggles her brows. “I’m sure he’d pay you well.”

Anna shakes her head. “Monica isn’t a call girl.”

“Exactly!” I look at Anna in gratitude. “That’s what I said. Besides, I’m not that desperate.”

“Oh well.” Hayley sighs. “It would’ve been a sight to see. But not all dreams come true.”

Chapter 6

Monica

Once Hayley and I get home, I flip the lights on as she puts her bag down and drops onto the white couch that helps visually separate our living room from the kitchen and eating area. Or so Hayley says.

If it were up to me, we’d be lucky to have a futon and beanbag chair. And they’d sit in the middle of the apartment like two forlorn islands in search of an archipelago.

I flop down on the couch beside Hayley and prop my feet up on the coffee table.

“So . . .” she starts, trying to appear casual. “Have you had dinner yet?”

I smother a snort, knowing full well Hayley just wants to know if I made any food she can eat. The little mooch. When I first moved in, I learned to make enough for both of us whenever I cooked.

“I made chicken pancit.”

Her eyes widen. “Ooooooh. Is there enough for me?”

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