Page 35 of The Fake Date Agreement

“Of course he didn’t,” I snap, still embarrassed. “Only five-year-olds share candy. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Her expression is thoughtful. “He was looking at your mouth.”

“Probably wishing he had his own lollipop.”

“Or maybe picturing your mouth around his?—”

I smack her with a cushion from my bed. “No.We arenothaving this discussion. I have to look him in the face, and I can’t if you finish that sentence.”

She laughs. “And Javier had that smutty book you were reading?”

“Yes, which reminds me, I need to hide it.” I move to get up.

“Nope.” She yanks me back on the bed and springs to her feet, plopping down on my desk chair to pick up my book. “I’m going to tab the relevant pages for him.”

I scrunch my nose. “Why?”

She reaches for my Post-it notes. “So he knows the things you like.”

I blush. “What makes you think I like those things?”

“Because all girls like those things. I’m doing it. I bet Javier ‘the Casanova’ Duarte would deliver a ten out of ten performance.” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively, and true to her word, she flicks through the book and starts sticking hot pink tabs to the pages.

“The Casanova?” I repeat.

“It’s the accent.” She lifts her head, auburn bangs falling into her dark blue eyes. She shakes her hair back and continues, “He could read me a shopping list, and I’d orgasm on the spot. You should totally sleep with them, Tobie.”

I stare at her. “What?”

She sticks another tab in my book, and I have no clue why I’m not stopping her. I must be more into this idea than I want to admit.

“Look. Revenge is all well and good, but you need to have a good time. If the opportunity arises, you should embrace it. Live in the moment. YOLO.”

“They are not going to want to sleep with me, Max. This is more of a business relationship.”

She snorts. “Yeah, tell that to Caleb Boucher, who was having impure thoughts while staring at your mouth.”

I arch my eyebrow. “Impure thoughts?”

“I was raised Catholic. What else would you call thinking about having a girl?—”

“Max…” I warn her.

She lifts her hands, palms to me. “I promise not to say the words, but I am definitely thinking them. And so were you to freak out and ask him to lick you.”

“Mylollipop,” I tell her, blushing. “Notme. Mylollipop.”

Her eyes widen. “Isthatwhat you were thinking?”

Snorting, I shake my head. “He was probably hungry. Maybe he was jealous the doctor didn’t give him a lollipop.”

She stops tabbing my book’s spicy chapters to look at me, and she’s surprisingly serious. “You always sell yourself short.”

“No, I don’t.”

But she’s right. I do.

Since there was no way I could lie about something this big, I told her about Marc cheating and the guys’ offer—revenge on Marc in exchange for me clearing away the girls who flock around them, distracting them from the looming championship.

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