Page 9 of Perfect Boy

He nods. “That you will.”

As he closes the door behind me, staying inside the club while I head to the changing room to get my things, my feet scream to be rubbed. Or soaked. Or anything.

But let’s face it; I don’t have the extra cash to go out and get a pedicure right now.

“Well, well, well,” Sutton says, looking up at me as I walk through the door. She’s on the couch with a blanket pulled clear up to her chin. “How was work?”

“Long.” I sigh. “I’m so tired.”

“Did you even eat dinner tonight?” She looks concerned. “I mean, we both know I can’t cook shit and you can’t cook shit. But I do have some Bagel Bites in the freezer. Oh, and chicken nuggets. Who doesn’t love some nugs from time to time? And even I can’t mess that up.”

Collapsing next to her, I throw my head back. “Actually, that sounds good. Like, really good.” As if on cue, my stomach growls. “I’d probably eat a moldy sandwich right now—that’s how hungry I am.”

Not like that’s anything I haven’t done before, I think to myself, choosing not to say the words out loud.

A senator’s daughter probably doesn’t need to know the things I’ve eaten when my mom didn’t grocery shop for weeks on end.

Jumping up, she tosses me her blanket before heading toward the kitchen. “BRB, my hardworking woman. And I shall return with a home-cooked feast! Because I’m domestic like that.”

Just as I hear her pulling the freezer open, followed by the beeping sounds of the oven buttons, my phone dings. Yawning, I reach in my pocket and look at the screen to see who it is.

Patrick Swayze 2.0: Tiny Dancer, don’t you think it’s time to schedule a practice?

I stare at the message, knowing it’s from Watson. He must have put his name as that when we traded phone numbers the other day. I have yet to see him dance, but let’s be real; he is no Patrick freaking Swayze.

Patrick Swayze 2.0: It’s been a few days. You know, the less we practice, the worse I’ll be. And the worse I am, the worse you’ll look.

Patrick Swayze 2.0: I mean, performance-wise. You’ll always look beautiful.

Me: I changed your name to Just Watson, FYI.

Just Watson: Wow. Hello to you too.

Me: Hello, Just Watson.

Me: Tomorrow. Three o’clock.

Just Watson: Works for me.

Just Watson: Oh, is that how we’re leaving it? Maybe we could talk about our days?

My lips turn up the smallest bit, and I shake my head. He’s persistent—I’ll give him that. But everyone knows men love a game of cat and mouse. I don’t want to be Watson’s mouse. The mouse always gets caught. And ends up in the cat’s mouth. And why does the thought of Watson’s mouth make me ache?

Me: Good night, Just Watson.

Just Watson: Night, Ryann.

“Those should be done in a few minutes,” Sutton says, sitting next to me. She nods toward my phone. “Who are you chatting it up with this late?”

I consider lying and telling her it’s someone else. But Watson and I are dance partners; obviously, we’re going to have to talk sometimes.

“Watson,” I mutter, trying to look and sound unimpressed.

Just like I knew she would, she nudges my side. “Big-boy Watson Gentry.” She nods slowly. “That dude looks like he’s packing.”

“Yeah, packing lunch that his mother put in his lunch box,” I deadpan. “Good Lord. If you’re so interested in his dong, why don’t you hook up with him? God knows he’d jump at the opportunity. He’s a Wolf.” I say the words, but truth be told, I’d be a bit annoyed if they hooked up. Though I have no freaking clue why.

“That would be funny since he’s best friends with my douchebag dance partner.” An evil laugh escapes her. “God, I hate Hunter fucking Thompson.”

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