Page 67 of Play Me
“Great.”
“Great.”
He tosses his bag over his shoulder and walks toward his truck. “I’d say I’ll text you with details, but God knows you’ll be texting me orders every day until then. I’ll just hit reply.”
I watch him until he reaches his truck.How is this possible?
My mind can barely break down what just happened as I climb into my car. I close the door and then rest my head against the seat, closing my eyes.And breathe. Gray’s truck starts up in the distance, loud and obnoxious as always.
This makes no sense.Does Gray pity me? Is he thankful for my help? Are we going to arrive in Sugar Creek and find out that Joe is a drunkard with a magic eight ball?
The thought makes me laugh, and my stress eases. Finally.
I start the car and buckle up, then I reach for the gear shifter. But I make a last-minute change of plans and grab my phone instead. Gray’s name is at the top of my text chain with a cowboy by his name.
Me: I hate you a smidgen less.
Gray : Don’t. You’re buying my lunch while we’re there, and I eat. A lot.
Me: Never mind. I hate you the same.
Gray : Thank God.
“Asshole,” I say, grinning as I leave the facility.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Astrid
I need help.
My best friend and I have been in a serious relationship for almost three years. We moved in together a year ago and have talked about getting married and starting a family. We’re both ready to take the next step. But here’s the problem—he’s not talked to me in two weeks because he found out that I’m a flirt. (His friends witnessed some of my antics at a bar. Good times.)
I admit it, okay? I love to flirt. I love other men flirting with me. Dare I say that I need the attention? I don’t do it in front of my boyfriend, and I have zero intention of letting it lead into anything more than a few innuendos and winks while I’m out with my friends oron a work trip. I say it’s a harmless way of bolstering my confidence. He says it’s cheating.
So … am I the villain?
For the thirtieth time, I read through the question Gianna sent me to answer for the column. For the thirtieth time, I’m stupefied.
When I agreed to submit a response to an anonymous question, I expected it to be easy. After all, one of my not-so-finest qualities is that I can be judgmental. But as I sit with the question, I find that it’s not easy at all.
I tuck my legs beneath me and curl up into the corner of my couch.
My first instinct was to tell the woman that if she values her relationship, she’ll stop flirting. But I got halfway through that response and decided I didn’t really agree with what I was writing. Flirting in and of itself isn’t a bad thing. Then I started a reply that if her man can’t trust her not to actually cheat, then she needs to run. It didn’t take long until I realized that wasn’t a good answer, either.
It's so hard when you’re asked to be judgmental on the spot.
“Come in,” I shout, closing my computer when a knock comes from the entryway.
“It’s me!” Audrey’s voice rings through my apartment before her pretty face appears around the corner. “Hey!”
I smile at her. “Hey. How was work?”
“We’re not talking about it.” She winces. “It was one of those days. But there was one bit of sunshine today.”
“Really? Tell me.”
