Page 46 of The Fine Line
I blink. “Of course you did.”
“I didn’t know not to. He came up after the game, introduced himself, seemed cool—I mentioned we’d be here?—”
“He seemed cool,” I repeat flatly. “Of course he did.”
“Cub, I?—”
“Hey, kids,” a deep voice interrupts from behind us.
We both turn to see Randall, the bar’s owner, smiling kindly as he sets down a tray with two mojitos.
“Double-made an order,” he says. “All yours. On the house.”
“Thanks, Randall,” we both say in unison, managing polite smiles until he walks away.
“Well, that was sweet of him,” I say. “But I’m not going to be needing this, so it’s all yours, Sutton.”
I try to sidestep him again, but he shifts, blocking me effortlessly.
“Goddammit,” I grumble, swatting at his chest. “Why are you so?—”
“So what?”
Irritating. Arrogant. Maddening. Impossible.
But what slips out is: “Big.”
“Big?” Rhett repeats, eyebrows lifting, amused.
“Yes,” I huff, actually stomping my foot. “Why are you so big? And… irri—frustrat—ddening.”
I slap my hand over my face.
“Sorry?” Rhett laughs.
“I changed my mind. You can’t have this anymore,” I mutter, grabbing one of the mojitos and taking a long sip. I try for another, but nothing comes through the straw.
When I open my eyes, Rhett’s holding the straw shut between his fingers.
“Excuse you,” I scoff.
“Do you think maybe you’ve had enough?” he asks gently.
“Not if I’m still having to talk to you,” I mutter. “And besides, I tried to leave. You won’t let me.”
“Because you shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you need to show all those people that you’re unfazed. That you don’t give a shit what they think—just like you always do.”
I lower my glass slowly. His hand falls away.
“I am unfazed,” I say.
He nods.
“And I don’t give a shit what they think.”
