Page 65 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Keep up that sassy talk.

“Threats. I like it.”I like it a lot. “Rock climbing? Bounce house? Or dinner and drinks on a rooftop bar with a killer view—you know, so you can get all dressed up?”

Show off the boobs, maybe?

Her lips curve into a sly smile, and she props her chin on her hand. “What makes you think I even own heels?”

Such a brat.

“Oh, you own them,” I say confidently, leaning forward like Ican somehow close the distance between us through the screen. “And you’re already planning which ones to wear.”

She rolls her eyes.

“And what if I don’t?”

Silly girl. She should know better than to try and verbally spar with me.

“Something tells me you’d hate missing the chance to knock me out with how good you look.” I pause. “You’re dying to try and eat me alive.”

Eat me alive.

Please do.

12

austin

I’ve changed my outfit ninety-two times.

The discarded rejects are draped across every piece of furniture in my bedroom, forming a colorful, chaotic pile that might actually be judging me. A graveyard of “almost” outfits. Too casual. Too dressy.

Too much cleavage.

Not enough cleavage.

I stand here staring at myself in the mirror in what might finally bethe outfit…but suddenly I’m not sure anymore.

It’s the nerves. They’re throwing me off.

It’s weird because I don’tdonerves. As a professor I have to be self-assured and fully capable of keeping my composure. I’m cool. Sarcastic. Confident on most days.

Yet here I stand, red-faced and fidgety like a teenager getting ready for her first prom.

I’ve had to redo my makeup.

Twice.

Mostly because I still cannot figure out how to do a wing-tip at the corner of my eye, and kept smudging the liquid liner and UGH! How hard can it be?!

Apparently, hard enough.

I barely recognize myself. Can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing or if I look like a contestant on one of those reality dating shows where they’re dolled up to see the love of their life for the first time.

Not that this isthat,of course. Definitely not.

Grabbing my mascara again, I lean over the counter, squinting at my reflection as I fix the lashes on my left eye. They decided to rebel at the last minute, giving me that uneven, half-hearted look that doesn’t match the flawless right side.

Rude.

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