Page 92 of The Fake Husband Play
Cute and excellent taste in gross drinks, be still my heart…
As Mindy moves on to harassing the guys playing pool, I make meaningful eye contact with Cutie’s profile until he finally seems to sense that he’s being watched. When he turns my way, spotting me just four stools down, the brief flicker of shock on his face, followed quickly by a kind of happiness I don’t usually inspire in the scruffier sex, banishes the last of my sad fog.
I mean, I’m cute, but short, scrawny girls with frizzy blond hair who spend most of their time in the raggedy kitchen scrubs because chef whites are pretentious when you run a café in an office building aren’t everyone’s thing. Neither are short, scrawny girls who never met a weird vintage dress they wouldn’t wear out to the club.
But I’m not in a dress tonight.
I’m in my trying-not-to-be-sad girl uniform of a yellow T-shirt and jeans with sunshine clips in my hair. I’m dressed like a middle school kid and barely bothered with makeup, but this guy is already out of his chair like he won the hot girl lottery.
Instantly, I decide he should be rewarded with pussy.
Enthusiasm in the opposite sex is pathetically rare in this day and age. Therefore, it must be encouraged, and I want to be part of building a better tomorrow.
“Hey, you,” Enthusiastic Cutie says as he slides onto the stool next to mine. “Nice to see you again.”
My brows shoot up. “Again?”
“Yeah, again,” he says, blue eyes dazzling into mine. “You were at the party a few weeks ago.”
Shit, he isn’t excited aboutme,after all.Cutie thinks I’m someone else.
“Sorry, but no,” I say, hating to toss him back, but I’m not into shoplifting other women’s cuties. “You must have me confused with someone else.”
His brow furrows. “No, it was you. I waved at you across the room, but then you disappeared into the kitchen and… Well, I thought maybe you might have recognized me, but…” He breaks off with a tight laugh. “Apparently not.”
I squint up at him, trying again to place him and failing. “I’m sorry. But I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Yes, we have.” His lips hook up on one side in a smirk that’s also familiar, but then, lots of men smirk. Then he adds in a steady voice, “Makena,” and I nearly fall off my stool. My lips part, but before I can ask if he heard Cobb say my name or something, he adds, “Makena DeWitt, alumni of River Ridge High School,fan of cooking, cartoons, adventure, and all kinds of cheese, even the stinky kind.”
My eyes fly wide.
Woah…
Hedoesknow me.Gah, hopefully I wasn’t mean to him in high school or something.
I was never ameangirl on purpose or anything, but until I finally came out of my shell, I was really shy. A lot of people mistook that for me thinking my shit didn’t stink. When really, I was always afraid that my shit stank evenworsethan everyone else’s—hence all the keeping to myself and staying quiet until finally the stress of hiding grew greater than the stress of letting myself be seen.
But seriously, I can’t believe we went to the same high school! I was shy, but notthatshy. And I had eyes. I would have remembered a hottie like this roaming the halls or throwing footballs across the field or jumping into pools, or whatever kind of sports thing he was into. Some jocks choose the jock life later, but Cutie looks like the kind who’s been going hard at sports his entire life.
Maybe he graduated a few years ahead of me?
Or behind?
“You were a freshman when I was a senior!” I announce, pointing at his face, the tension in my shoulders easing as I finally figure it out. I probably would have realized right away if the Trash Panda weren’t already going to my head. “That’s why I don’t recognize you. You grew! You were probably small and slim and waiting for puberty to up your testosterone, and now…you’re big.” I spread my fingers wide in a ta-da motion. “Case closed. I’m a detective.”
He grins, and my chair suddenly feels wobbly. Ormaybe that’s the earth moving because—woah, that’s my kind of smile. I feel that big, crinkle-eyed grin from lips to my toes as he drawls, “Try sixth grade, but close.”
My brows shoot up. “Oh, wow, so you’re…”
“Twenty-six,” he supplies while I struggle to math the math.
“Oh, okay.” I cock my head. “That’s not so bad. Twelve grade and sixth grade sounds criminal. But twenty-six and thirty-two are…” I trail off, realizing that I’m saying the quiet part out loud.
His grin widens. “Thirty-two is great. And I like that you’re doing the ‘is he old enough to consider kissing’ math out loud. Big fan of inside thoughts becoming outside thoughts.”
My cheeks go hot, but not with pleasure, not embarrassment. “Yeah? You like that I’m a dirty old woman whomightthink you’re cute?”
He laughs, and it’s hot, too, nearly as hot as the low, husky sound he makes in his throat as he leans in to ask, “Just ‘might?’ I’m not a sure thing yet?”
