Page 16 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
She blows out a breath like I’m the one being difficult. Me.
“11532 Rainier Place, Unit 112.”
I key the address into my car’s navigation system, pulling away from the curb. “Put your seatbelt on, future Mrs. Huxley.”
“You’re the worst,” she bites back. But she pulls the belt across her body and fastens it with a click. “Now I’m going to have to get up early and go get my car from the arena.”
“I’ll take you.”
“You’re going to take me? Do you know how out of your way that is?”
“Just let me fucking take you, okay?”
“So damn bossy.” She tsks.
“Pick a lane,” I mutter as I start the engine. “Do you want to act like you’re my fiancée or not?”
The idea of getting close to her feels like walking straight into a trap. She’s too sharp, too smart, too everything I’ve never been good at dealing with.
The drive to her apartment is silent except for my navigation system reading the directions aloud. Her apartment is in Capitol Hill, a few blocks off Broadway. When I pull up to her building, I study it with a frown. It’s not terrible, but it’s not great either. A place where the locks might not work and the security cameras are just for show.
She gets out and I watch her summon that fake breezy confidence, the mask she wears when she wants people to think everything’s under control. She struts to her door as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. But when she thinks I’m not looking, her shoulders curl in. Just for a second.
I stare at her legs as she goes. She’s tiny, but her bare legs below that short black dress are killer. That she can walk with as much sass as she does is honestly pretty impressive.
“What time tomorrow?” I call out the window.
She doesn’t even look back. “We’ll get it after we move.”
Then she slams the door as though it insulted her mother.
I sit there for a minute, just breathing. My hands are tight on the steering wheel. Pushing out a breath, I shake my head.
Five months. One fake relationship. One tiny woman with ridiculous red lipstick that she wears like armor.
I’ve made a deal with the devil… and she wears red lipstick and heels sharp enough to sever a carotid artery.
Chapter5
Juliet
Inibble on my lower lip as I stare down at the text conversation I’m having with Derek, my manager from Foxies. Apparently texting him I QUIT is not the way to actually quit working at his sleazy restaurant.
Juliet:I QUIT
Derek:You had better show up today for your shift.
Juliet:Or what?
Derek:Or you won’t get a reference out of me for your next job.
Juliet:I don’t like bullies, Derek. And I hated working for you. Don’t contact me again.
Derek:Bitch
Blocking his number, I take a deep breath. That went about as well as could be expected. While I don’t like drama, I am glad that I’ll never hear from him again.
At ten a.m. on the dot, the moving company arrives at my old building. I greet them at the front desk in full armor. Red lipstick applied with military precision, hair piled high on my head and held with a clip, heels that say don't test me, and a pair of high-waisted wide-leg sailor pants.
