Page 13 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Idangle my keys in front of the face of the one woman that I truly loathe, just because I know it will make her cheeks grow pink with anger. Juliet screws up her face, her dark chocolate eyes flashing with something dangerous.
“Don’t push me, Huxley.”
“You’re awfully self-righteous for someone who just hitched her wagon to my star.”
“I did no such thing!” Her mouth bunches up, and she looks like she’s about to explode. “You know what? This was a bad idea. I’ll call Jimbo and tell him I’m not interested because you’re a douche.”
Like hell she will. I roll my eyes. “Calm down.”
She points at me, serious as a concussion. “Don’t tell me to calm down. I won’t stand here and have you make sexist remarks to me.”
“Sexist remarks?” I put my hands up. “Whoa, whoa. Let’s back up. Can we just go somewhere to talk about this like we’re fucking human?”
“You know what?” Juliet puts a hand on her hip, grinding her teeth. “I need a drink. And you’re buying. Consider it your thank you for not destroying your career.”
I snort. “Please. I would’ve been fine.”
It’s half a joke, but also not really. I’m still running hot from that meeting, adrenaline tightening every muscle in my body like I just finished a fight.
“Do me a favor and just don’t talk until you get me a drink.”
I drive while she stares out the passenger window like she wants to break it with her mind. I tell myself to focus on the road, not on the tension rolling off her like heat waves. Not on her crossed arms or her clenched jaw or those ridiculous heels that are so impractical it’s almost offensive.
Those same heels she always wore in college. Those dresses, pretty little floral wrap dresses that emphasized her innocence somehow, made her dark hair and olive skin pop. She’s too polished, too composed, too everything. It pisses me off how tightly she keeps herself wound, like she’s afraid of what might happen if she lets go for even a second.
I don’t know either, but I bet it’d be entertaining.
I drive us to The Secret History, a noisy bar that’s in my building. Living in the Sinclair, the team-owned luxury apartment building, puts me only a few minutes from the arena. I like The Secret History because not only is it close to home, but it has an excellent selection on tap and they highly discourage looky-loos by providing the Seattle Havoc players with a private back room.
Juliet strides inside like she owns the place and orders a gin and tonic with four limes. I get whatever’s on tap and then lead her to a booth in the back room. It’s almost empty, as it’s a Wednesday night. Perfect for working out the terms of the ridiculous agreement that she’s backed me into.
We sit across from each other, sipping our drinks, and it feels like a standoff. Her arms folded on the table, my jaw tight enough to crack teeth.
She shrugs out of her blazer, and my eyes practically bug out of my head. That dress underneath is a fucking landmine. Tight across her chest, hugging every curve. I’ve been trying not to look at her mouth all night, but now I can’t stop picturing the rest of her under me. I’m not even a tits guy, but suddenly I want to live and die by that neckline.
She catches me looking and turns red. “Really? That’s where your brain goes?”
“What, it’s my fault for noticing?” I mutter, taking a long drink of beer. “You’re the one who wore the damn dress.”
She rolls her eyes and pulls out her phone, then writes on cocktail napkins. Fast and aggressive, like she’s solving a hostage negotiation instead of planning a fake relationship.
“Do you think we should be one of those couples that are saving themselves for marriage? Would that fly?”
I snort. “No way. Who would believe that?”
Juliet’s mouth drops open. “What are you implying? That people think I’m a slut?”
“Jesus! No.” I shake my head. “Honestly? I thought people would think that I’m too much of a slut.”
“Oh.” She sits back, the tension easing from her shoulders. “Hm.”
“You know what will make this conversation go more smoothly? If you just assume that I’m not trying to slut-shame you with every comment I make. I may be an asshole, but I’m not that kind of asshole. I have never thought you were easy. If anything, I think the opposite.”
She sniffs and adjusts the neckline of her dress so that I can see less of her cleavage. “I think it would be better if you keep your mouth shut about how you see me.”
“Done.” I sip my beer, trying to give myself a moment to collect my thoughts.
“So, about my apartment–” She pokes out her bottom lip, drawing my attention. Damn her and her bright red lipstick. “Frankly, I can’t afford to split rent on a fancy condo when I’m already stretched thin financially.”
