Page 15 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“Yeah, right.” She snorts. “You’ve got the subtlety of a nuclear bomb.”
It’s weird, because we know each other. There’s a history between us. Or at least, we know each other’s reputations. Which is a toss-up.
I smirk at her. “I’m still hot, though.”
Juliet looks away, biting back something. Could be a smile. Could be anger.
“Fine.”
“Fine,” I parry. “You’ll move in tomorrow.”
Juliet stares at me across the table as she stacks up the cocktail napkins and jogs them. Her second drink arrives, and she doesn’t break eye contact while she takes a sip. I barely touch my beer. My stomach’s too tight, too twisted up with whatever this feeling is.
“This is going to be hellish,” I finally mutter. “And we haven’t even been fake engaged for three hours.”
She drinks, her throat bobbing gracefully. Doesn’t say a word.
When Juliet disappears down the hall toward the bathroom, I finally exhale.
The teasing scent of whatever perfume she wears lingers after she’s gone. It’s citrus and heat and something that makes my whole body tense up. Like a memory I can’t quite place but know I’d kill to relive. It makes my brain stall.
I can still feel her waist under my hand from earlier. Still remember the way she leaned into me when she slipped, like she trusted I’d catch her. Even if it was just for a second.
She’s so small. I always forget how small she is until I see her and wonder how the world hasn’t devoured her completely.
I shouldn’t care. I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about how good she felt pressed up against me. How easy it would be to press her harder. Pin her down. Slide my hand up that tempting little dress and see what else she’s hiding behind that perfect mouth and terrifying brain.
I take a long drink of my beer and force myself to think about hockey. About press obligations. About anything that isn’t the way she looked at me like she didn’t hate me for once.
This is going to be hell.
Once she returns with the loud click of her expensive heels on the concrete floor, I say, “Are you planning on driving yourself home?”
“Yes.” She crosses her arms. “Why?”
I flag down the waitress and hand her Juliet’s unfinished drink. “She’s done.”
Juliet’s eyes flash dangerously. “Excuse me?”
“You’re five feet tall and maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet,” I tell her. “You’ve had enough. We have a big day tomorrow. I’m not risking it.”
She takes a long, deliberately defiant sip of her drink, then flashes me a sugar-sweet smile. “Get fucked.”
I stand up and toss cash on the table. “I’m leaving.”
“So leave. I’ll get an Uber.”
I lean in close, lowering my voice. “Like hell I’m leaving you here alone. Look around. You think people haven’t noticed us sitting together? They’ve been gossiping about us, no doubt. So act like you actually like me and let’s go.”
I thrust Juliet’s blazer at her while she glares at me. Her spine straightens and some of the fight goes out of her. She doesn’t argue. That tells me everything I need to know about how much this job opportunity really means to her.
Outside, she walks stiffly beside me. No words, just her heels clicking on the sidewalk and her jaw tight with suppressed anger.
“What’s your address?” I ask.
She grinds her teeth. “Just take me to my car, Huxley.”
“No. Stop being a brat and give me your damn address.”
