Page 2 of The Worst Guy Ever
My head snapped back. “I absolutely do not.”
“Come on. Two sluts living it up, I’m sure we’d have fun.”
“Did you just call me aslut?”
“You called me a whore first,” he shrugged. “It takes one to know one.”
“What are you, eight?” I shrieked.
“Yeah, eight inches,” he laughed, reaching for the wine and changing the subject as if everyone apart from me found him charming. “This looks beautiful, Kara. Sorry for being late.”
“I’ll forgive you this once,” she smiled sweetly, but he was not bloody forgiven as far as I was concerned.
I pushed my chair back and stood to take my water glass to the sink. Leaning against the counter, I refilled it while attempting to calm my breathing.Who did this arsehole think he was?It was supposed to be a nice day, two groups of friends coming together, and bonding over a shared love of food and each other. I would not cause a scene by blowing a fuse over something so stupid but how dare he insult me like that?
If a slut, by definition, is a woman with many partners, then yes, I guess you could call me that. I myself have proclaimed that I’m in myslut eraon more than one occasion, and that’s fine when I’m saying it about myself. It was absolutely not fine when said byhim.
Back at the table, I leaned down and whispered in Megan’s ear. “Swap places with me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to sit next to Rob. He’s a prick and a manspreader,” I said, not exactly quiet enough for him to miss. Megan did me a favour and shifted over, swapping our plates while I switched our glasses. Kara threw me a bemused look, and I reached for her knee under the table and gave it a squeeze. “Missed you, babe. This is lovely.”
“So Rob, tell me about your work,” Megan said, politely bringing him into the conversation. The traitor.
In my peripheral vision, I saw him nod and swallow his food. I perfected the art of stabbing my carrots with my fork.
“I’m a psychologist,” he said.
“That explains it,” I scoffed, a little louder than intended, and when I looked up from my food, all eyes were on me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, leaning in to look past Megan.
“That’s how you get laid so much.”
“I beg your pardon?” he laughed.
I took a long, slow sip of my wine, then dabbed the corner of my mouth with my napkin as I glared in his direction. “You’re a psychologist. You use your professional knowledge to manipulate and exploit women for personal gain.”
“I absolutely do not. I am fully able to switch between my work and personal life.”
“Hmmm, it doesn’t seem like the kind of career skill set that you just leave at the office each day.”
He set his cutlery on his plate, his meal half eaten, and linked his fingers together, elbows on the table. “And what do you do, Hattie?”
My hands balled into fists, and I leaned back, keeping them still in my lap. “I’m an account director at a marketing agency.”
“Oh, so you use your professional knowledge to manipulate and exploit the general public for profit,” he mocked.
“Excuse me? That’s not the same at all.”
“How do you figure?”
“You know things. Techniques and whatnot. So you trick women. Use mind games. It’s disrespectful.”
“Oh trust me, there is nothing more respectful than the way I disrespect my sexual partners. I’m insulted that you think I need to trick them in the first place.” He picked up his cutlery and loaded his fork with buttered greens. “And tell me, how would a man get you into his bed?”
“Men don’t get me into bed, I gettheminto bed.”
