Page 10 of Perfect Boy

I look at her face to search for any sign that she’s bluffing, but I see none. Still, I pat her arm. “Eh, give it a few weeks, and you’ll be falling all over him, like every other girl does.”

Slapping my thigh, she scowls. “Come on, Ryann. Have a little freaking faith that I have a brain inside my skull, please.” She shakes her head. “What is to like about him? He’s a pompous asshole who is going to make it his life’s mission to make this entire fundraiser hell for me.”

“Hate sex.” I wink. “Sounds like you two would have wonderful hate sex.”

I expect her to roll her eyes, but I should know better than that. Sutton Savage is always quick with a comeback.

Wiggling her eyebrows, she scoots closer. “Guess I could say the same for you and Watson, huh?”

“Definitely not,” I grumble quickly. “He’s vanilla. And vanilla men don’t have hate sex.”

“He is so not vanilla—I can tell.” She glares at me playfully. “I’m telling you, that boy probably has a closet full of whips and chains—I sense it. I can read people like a book.”

I open my mouth to protest, but thank God, the microwave starts beeping, telling us the food is done. Luckily getting me out of any more talk about Watson Gentry and his possible wild and dark sex life.

There will be absolutely no sex when it comes to Watson Gentry and me.

None.

But why am I suddenly thinking about him chaining me to the bed?

6

Watson

Ilook at my phone. She’s eight minutes late. After she told me to be on time. I gaze around the studio, wondering what the hell is in store for me when she walks in. It’s obvious she likes to be in charge. Which is fine—for now. But if I ever get the chance to hook up with her? I’ll be the one in control. But that isn’t looking too promising, seeing as she’s as frosty as the North Pole.

The door flies open, and in walks Ryann with her hair pulled into a bun, a huge-ass tumbler in her hand, and her bag slung over her shoulder. Dropping it down, she toes her sandals off and pulls off the Brooks sweatpants, leaving her in her black leotard, and my heart skips about five beats.

She looks up at me. “Ready?”

I try to stop staring and form a coherent sentence. She already thinks I’m a complete idiot. I don’t really want her to think I can’t talk when she’s around too.

“Yes. I’ve been ready. For eight—no, nine minutes.”

Walking up to me, she scrunches her nose up in an almost-playful way. “Don’t be that guy, Gentry. No one likes that guy.”

“What guy?” I frown.

“The one who fixates on things like not being on time. It’s the equivalent of a Karen. You should grow your hair out and wear blouses. Instead of Karen, I shall call you Karl.”

“Woman, you do realize you told me not to be late.” I stare at her, completely confused. “Do you not remember telling me that?”

“Oh, I remember. And I said it because I know how jocks can be. They think their time is more important than the rest of us. To be honest, I figured I’d still beat you here.”

“Well, you didn’t,” I toss back. “And I don’t think my time is any more important than yours, Tiny Dancer. Not in the least.”

She eyes me over for a second, her chest rising as she pulls in a breath. “Good.” She nods. “Let’s get started.” As she heads to the center of the floor, she glances over her shoulder. “Oh, and the only reason why I was late is because my piece-of-shit car wouldn’t start. If it wasn’t for that, I would have been on time.” She stops, shrugging. “Probably would have even beaten you here. Who knows?”

“You mean, you walked here?” I scowl. “Why didn’t you call me? I would have picked you up.”

“Oh, no, eventually, she rumbled to life. It just took a little TLC—that’s all.” She acts like it’s no big deal. Like it happens every single day or something. “Now, let’s get started. If you’re ready?”

I nod, relaxing a bit. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.” I cringe. “I want to apologize in advance for stepping on your toes.”

She gives me an unfazed look. “No worries.”

I relax a little more at those two words.

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