Page 49 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

I smirk because I could charge tickets. “Want some?”

“You’re gonna need some help bringing them home.”

“Shit, I didn’t think of that.”

Chloe plops down in her chair and leans back before scrutinizing me. “You forgave him.”

“I unblocked him.”

“On your phone?”

“On Instagram.”

Her brows collide. “But you’re going to unblock him…on your phone, right?”

"He's asking when he can see me again," I admit and avoid, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement dance beneath my skin.

“So, why are you freaked out about giving him access to you through your phone? That’s, like, Dating 101, Rory.”

"I'm not freaked out…" My protest fades because, well, she's not wrong.

I completely am.

It’s another level.

One that should be simple because it is.

"You're scared," Chloe pegs me, her voice laced with that tell-it-like-it-is brand of honesty I both dread and rely on. "When's the last time Rory Sellers was scared of a guy?”

I mindlessly scoff. “I’m not. I’m not scared of him.”

“Seems like it.” She crosses her arms haughtily over her chest. “I mean, why else wouldn’t you treat him like a normal guy?”

“He’s my father’s—”

“I know who he is. I Google-stalked him on your behalf.”

“Chloe,” I lightly rebuke, as a wave of pride runs across my chest. “Geez…”

She smiles at me. “You’re welcome.”

Shaking my head at her, I still grin because this is ridiculous. I’m a grown-ass woman. I can do what I want.

“What’s eating you, Ror?” Chloe prods when my silence goes on a beat too long. “It’s not like you to run around in your mind like this. You normally just do. So do it.”

I shake my head, my smile slipping. "It's what Dad will think..."

“Since when does Rory Sellers worry about what anyone thinks? Like, ever?” Chloe leans forward, her eyes narrowed, not allowing me to look anywhere but right at her conviction.

It feels as though she's trying to inject me with her fearlessness, and I hate how much I need that right now.

But she's right.

I can count on one hand the times I've allowed someone else's opinion to dictate my actions—and those are blemishes on an otherwise unapologetic record of independence and resilience.

"Come on," she urges, her tone softening into the realm of encouragement. "You've never let anyone, not the team, not public opinion, hell, not even your dad, dictate how you live your life. Why start now?"

My shoulders drop as the truth of her words settles onto my skin. "You're right. It's just... complicated."

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