Page 50 of Smut

“Yeah,” I tell him. “And not hanging out with you.”

“You’re kind of mean, you know that?”

“You’ve told me.”

“Did I tell you I like that?”

“You have.”

“And yet you keep doing it.”

I sigh, even though I’m trying not to smile. “Anyway, I don’t think it’s a good idea. There’s no reason for us to hang out anymore.”

There’s a pause. Am I being too harsh? Maybe.

I open my mouth to backtrack but he says, “But I have a reason.”

“And what is that?”

“A proposition.”

“Yeah, those never end well.”

“This might. It might end with us being rich.”

Now he has my attention. “What are you talking about?”

“Let me pick you up. I can be there in a half hour.”

“But what is this about? I’m not going unless I know. My roommate had a bad dust-up with a Nigerian drug lord last month and I’m not about to follow in her footsteps.”

“Tell him the chicken parmigiana was good,” she whispers, gesturing to the phone.

“I hate to burst your bubble, peach, but you know I’m not a Nigerian drug lord. However, I do have a solution for that overactive imagination of yours.”

“If I come, will you promise to never call me peach again?”

“No,” he says, “but that’s only because I’m nothing but honest.”

“I’m still not sure that’s true.”

“Trust me.”

“Not helping.”

“See you in thirty minutes.”

And he quickly hangs up before I can protest again.

“Is he coming here?” Ana asks excitedly. I’m not surprised to see her wine has been gulped down.

“No, we’re going to Spinnakers again,” I tell her, quickly marching into my bedroom to find myself something suitable to wear. I know my Lululemon pants and “Bazinga!” tank top should suffice, but I’m strangely compelled to make myself look better.

Ana follows me. “A date?” she asks with cautious optimism.

“No,” I tell her, adding a glare. “Not a date. I don’t date guys like Blake, and he doesn’t date girls like me. We’ve been over this.”

“Not even if he’s your fuckboy?”

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