Page 39 of The Merger
Tate: Are you done?
Me:
Tate: Good. Now, back to my problem. I’m going to send you two pictures. Tell me which one is better for Social.
Me: OMG
Tate: I haven’t even sent them yet. But I do love the support.
Me: You’re misreading my reaction.
Chirp! Chirp!
Two pictures appear in my inbox. Both of them are of Tate shirtless.
The first one has him posed in front of a stove with a spatula in his hand like he’s been cooking something. Anyone who knows him will know that’s not true. I’m surprised he knows where the kitchen is in his house.
The second picture is of Tate standing in his closet. His grin is a little cheekier and his hair more tousled as if he just got out of bed.
Me: There are so many women who would love this job. Why can’t you pick one of them?
Tate: Pick.
Me: If you’re looking for flirty comments that probably don’t even make sense—like, come make me breakfast, baby—pick the first one. Go with number two if you’re just wanting women to tell you that you’re hot.
Tate: Numero dos it is.
Me: Glad I could help.
Before I can exit the app, my phone rings.
“I picked two,” I say without looking at the screen. “What else do you want from me?”
“Oh, that’s quite the open-ended question, beautiful. It’s one that I’d love to answer.”
My ex-fling’s voice dances through the line. It causes my stomach to tighten.
Victor Morrisey is a complete douchebag. At one time, that had been part of his allure. He had absolutely no interest in anything long-term, liked to fuck, and gave me space. It took me a while to discover that he not only got off by me riding his cock, but he also got off by making me feel the pain of his rejection.
And it was painful. It wasn’t an actual heartbreak, but it did hurt. What hurt the most wasn’t losing Victor. I couldn’t care less about him. What bothered me was the embarrassment that I thought he might actually like me for more than my looks. He made me believe that, but it was all a lie—one I bought into.
I won’t make that mistake twice.
“I’ll keep this short and sweet,” he says. “I have an event next weekend, and I thought perhaps you’d like to be my plus-one.”
“I’ll keep this short and sweet, too. I’d rather eat shit and die.”
“Come on. You don’t mean that.”
“It would be impossible to mean it more. So fuck off and lose my number.”
I end the call and block him.
My blood pressure pounding, I sit up and call Tate.
“I already posted the second picture,” he says.
“Believe it or not, this isn’t about you.”
