Page 20 of Pucking Fake

"And somehow, none of this make me feel any better," I groan.

"Have you talked to him?"

"Why? So he can lie to me? No, thanks. I'm never talking to him again."

"You might not have a choice," she points out. "Your interview is on Monday. And this is probably the worst time to bring it up, but have you considered the possibility that he's the one you'll be int–"

"Donotfinish that sentence," I warn her.

She snaps her mouth closed, holding up her hands. "I'm just saying. It's a possibility."

She isn't wrong. Isn't that part of the problem? Somewhere between running out of his place without my shoes and arriving at mine—also without my shoes—the truth dawned on me. The sick sense of dread battling around in my stomach since I got home is mostly because I slept with a married man…and a tiny bit about the fact that I'm pretty sure said married man is my maybe future boss. I'm not sure why I'm so confident of that fact—perhaps because the universe currently hates me—but Iamconfident.

Micah Rushing isn't the player in need of an assistant. It's Logan. And he freaking knew it when he decided to take mehome with him and chose not to tell me that he was the player I was worried about. I'm mad as hell about that. Was it all just a big joke to him? Was I supposed to walk into that interview on Monday and be humiliated when I saw him sitting there?

I thought I was a pretty good judge of character. I've never been more wrong about someone in my life. That stings. I trusted him enough to sleep with him, something I'veneverdone. And the whole time, I was just a joke to him. There are no words to describe how that feels.

I don't want to talk to him. I never want to see him again. And I'm absolutelynotgoing to that interview Monday. Whatever pleasure he hoped to get out of humiliating me, he isn't getting.

He can go kick rocks.

I'll be right here. Wallowing until I come up with a better plan.

"You can't stay in bed forever," Serena says.

"Watch me." I grab the only pillow remaining on the bed and drag it up over my head. "Do not steal this one, Serena. I mean it."

"Fine," she sighs. "I'll leave you to be sad and miserable while I go buy ice cream and find us a movie."

I tug the pillow down to look at her. "You should go out."

"And leave you here to be sad and miserable alone?" She shoots me a patented Serena look. "No way. If you're wallowing, I'm wallowing."

I smile despite myself. "Are we pigs now?"

Her nose wrinkles. "I do not love that comparison, Peyton."

"I just meant they wallow. They're social. They love being in groups…" I roll my eyes at her. "You know damn well there is nothing piglike about you." I pause, frowning. "Actually, that's not true. You're a lot like a pig in all the best ways."

She narrows her eyes on me. "And now you're getting pistachio ice cream."

"It was a compliment! Pigs are intelligent, playful, clean freaks. Like you." I smirk, batting my lashes at her.

"Only in your weird brain is that a compliment," she mutters.

"So you admit it is a compliment in my weird brain."

"Shut up." She smiles at me.

"I love you too."

"Pistachio ice cream."

"You hate me. Understood."

She laughs evilly, spinning on her heel. I watch her practically dance from my bedroom before I pull the pillow back up over my face with a groan.

Being a pig would be so much easier.

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