Page 16 of Things I Wish I Said
I jerk my gaze back to hers and rake a hand through my hair as I exhale a shaky breath. My earlier irritation has vanished, something ambiguous taking its place. I don’t know what I expected when I agreed to meet with her, but it wasn’t this.
I swallow when she starts to speak, focusing on her incredible eyes and the words coming out of her mouth instead of her tits because it seems like the right thing to do, all things considered.
Thank fuck I’m sober or I’d fail with flying colors.
“Uh, sorry about that. I wasn’t expecting you,” the girl—Ryleigh—says in a raspy tone that makes my toes curl.
I drag a hand over the back of my neck, tension coiling in the muscles beneath my skin. My mother told me she knew I was coming, so I’m not sure where the miscommunication lies. “I’m sorry. My mother told me you made an appointment?”
“Your mother?” she asks, her brow furrowing.
“Yeah. Victoria De Leon? She’s the cofounder of Wishing Well?”
The girl nods, and I get the sense she’s taking this all in like I am. I can practically see the wheels spinning inside her head. “Right. And your role in this is?”
Hell, didn’t my mother tell her anything when they spoke?
“I’m Grayson De Leon, the potential fake boyfriend,” I say and instantly want to kick myself.
The potential fake boyfriend?
Could I sound any more like a fucking tool?
“You’re the fake boyfriend?” she asks, and I fight the urge to correct her and put an emphasis on “potential,” when I nod.
She laughs in answer, a shrill, startled sound that turns into a wheezing cough as she tries and struggles to catch her breath.
Alarm bells go off in my head, and I’m just about to step forward and—shit, I don’t fucking know—clear her airway, perform CPR, call for fucking help when she finally stops.
“I mean, you? Seriously?”
“Is there a problem?”
She laughs some more, then motions for me to step inside. “No. It’s just . . . well”—she waves her hands toward me—“you’re you, and I’m . . .” She bites her lip, and I frown. “Never mind,” she says, stifling her smile. “Just . . . come in, I guess.”
I guess?
This might be the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had.
I step inside the small ranch, taking in its modest furnishings and decor. Everything is bold and bright, painted in color and patterns from the coffee table to the entertainment unit, the paintings on the wall, and the fabric of the couch. Yet somehow, it works.
I glance back in front of me to find Ryleigh staring.
I’m cocky when it comes to baseball, and confident when it comes to chicks. Half the girls in Lincoln have thrown themselves at me at one point or another. But something tells me this chick is different.
She sinks down onto the couch and motions for me to have a seat, so I take the armchair across from her. A throw blanket is draped over the cushions to hide the threadbare material. Upon further inspection, several pieces in the room appear well-worn. This is a family that doesn’t have a whole lot, quite different from the environment I grew up in, but the neighborhood is quaint, and the house is well-kept and inviting, so there’s that.
“Sorry,” she starts, seemingly more composed than moments ago. “I just didn’t realize they were sending the boyfriend today, much less you. When I called and set up this meeting, I assumed it was with Victoria to go over . . . I don’t know . . . the logistics?”
Logistics?
This chick makes having a boyfriend sound so clinical. I might be new to this whole fake boyfriend thing, but she doesn’t sound like a teenager at the end of her life desperate to experience love. It sounds more like a business deal than anything.
“Do you work for Wishing Well, and do you always help with granting wishes?” she asks before I can say anything.
“No and no.”
No point in sugarcoating the truth.
