Page 11 of The Southern Submission

Annoying Payton: I can’t, you’re my girlfriend now. We have to get our story straight.

Me: *Fake* girlfriend. We created a story already. Now get out of my inbox unless you need me to play along with your idiotic sham for some reason.

The rapid-fire texting stops. I stare at my phone, wondering if calling him out on his bluff just worked. Maybe he’ll leave me alone until he needs a girlfriend for an event. My phone vibrates with an incoming call and Payton’s name flashes on the screen. I drop the phone onto the couch and look at it in shock.

“You relentless asshole,” I mutter as I stare at the vibrating phone. I pick it back up and swipe at the screen. “Why are you calling me?” I snap.

“It’s after eight. Is the caffeine still in your system from this morning, or do you drink coffee all day and let it mess with your circadian rhythm?” he asks by way of greeting.

Why is he like this? He's such a nerd, saying everything he thinks and wanting to crack me open for some reason.

“I stop drinking coffee at noon so it doesn’t mess with my sleep,” I grumble, not sure why I’m answering him honestly. “Why do you care?”

“I want to know if you’re naturally grumpy or if the coffee makes you that way.”

“Youmake me that way.” I sigh, stretching out on the couchfor what is destined to be a long, drawn-out verbal sparring match of our wits. It’s almost fun to shut down his every attempt to figure me out.

“I’m sure I do. It must be because I smile too much, right?” he asks, and I can hear the damn smile in his words.

“Absolutely. You’re weird for smiling so much.”

I can picture it, the way his full lips curl up at the corners, enhancing the little divot in his chin, his stunning blue eyes sparkling in challenge at me. I blink to clear the far too vivid picture from my mind and let the smile fall from my own lips, not sure how it got there, to begin with.

My phone chimes with a FaceTime request from him. I’m in my pajamas, a black crop top that says I heart Gossip, and cotton shorts, my hair piled on top of my head, and no makeup, not that I wear much regularly, but I definitely wasn’t planning on anyone seeing me like this other than my roommate, Della, if she happens to get home before I go to bed.

“I don’t want to see your stupid face right now,” I tell him.

“But I want to see yours. Just accept it, Muffin,” he teases.

I sigh and swipe on the FaceTime request, and it connects. His ocean-blue eyes and blindingly white smile greet me. A hint of dark stubble along his strong jaw catches my attention and makes my mouth water because the phone is close enough to show the detail. He’s reclining, holding his phone propped in front of him, looking as relaxed as anyone can, and I’m a ball of nerves in contrast. I glower to hide my deep perusal of his features.

“Happy?” I grumble.

“Very,” he purrs in great satisfaction. “Thank you, Muffin.”

“Why are you calling me that?” I snap, the pet name grating on my nerves nearly as much as the fact that his voice does something to melt the iceberg of my soul that I need very muchto stay frozen where he’s concerned. He’s a threat, and I don’t need my life complicated by him stirring up hormones and feelings because he’s indecently charming, fucking hot, and has a smile that could drop even panties held up by a chastity belt with a padlock on them.

“You didn’t like me using your name at the café, so I came up with something else. You had a muffin on the table with you, so I went with that. Not very original, but it’s cute and I bet it drives you crazy because you probably hate anything cute.”

Damn. How can he be so spot-on with his analysis of me this quickly? I do hate it because it’s cute. “You were using my full name earlier, which is what I didn’t like. Just call me Ainsley, like a normal person. You don’t have to use my full name or something after a food I was eating.”

“What ifIlike muffins? What if they’remyfavorite food and I can't resist them? What if Muffin is the most endearing thing I could’ve come up with?” he asks, pulling his phone closer to his face, more serious with every word.

My mouth goes dry the closer the phone gets to his deep ocean eyes, those perfect lips of his, and the dimples that come out to play every once in a while. I don’t know where to focus, every bit of his face is delicious and worthy of being devoured at close range. I swallow twice before I can unstick my tongue to form words.

“You’re lying,” I say hoarsely. I clear my throat and continue in a stronger voice. “No one likes muffins that much. They're the cheap, less tasty cousin to cupcakes. You took an easy way out.”

He laughs, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement. “You’re right, they’re not even my favorite baked good. Peach pie with vanilla ice cream is.” He shakes his head, smiling again. “Fuck, you’re such a spitfire. What’s your favorite dessert?”

I silently stare him down through the phone screen as I lick my dry lips. I don’t want to give him that particular answer. I want to be contrary and say something else, but instead, the truth finally comes out. “Peach pie, but with the crumble topping because it’s superior to a normal crust,” I admit, tearing my eyes away from the screen when his face grows serious, head tilting to the side.

“Really?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes. Are you done now? I was busy before you decided to barge into my night with your incessant questions.”

Payton shifts and I realize he’s now lying on his stomach, head propped on one arm. “Oh, I’m just getting started. You look pretty comfy. What were you so busy doing before I barged into your evening?” His eyes twinkle with mischief like he knows I’m lying.

I can’t tell him I was binge-watching my favorite trashy reality TV show and scrolling gossip online. “Why do you care?” I ask instead.

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