Page 72 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I fold my arms against the doorframe. “Why do you always wear that stuff?”
Her brow lifts. “Excuse me?”
“The lipstick. You don’t need it. It’s... obvious.”
She stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. “Obvious?”
“Yeah. Like a sign. Look at me. Look at my mouth.”
She laughs, sharp and short, until she sees my face and factors in my earnest expression.
“Wait,” she says slowly, her voice dropping to that dangerous tone she uses when she’s about to eviscerate someone. “You’re serious?”
I don’t answer because anything I say right now is going to make this worse.
“You think I’m trying to tempt someone?”
“Men look at your mouth,” I say flatly. It’s true. I’ve watched it happen a hundred times. “I’ve seen it.”
“And?”
“And maybe you shouldn’t make it so easy for them.”
Her whole body goes still, like I just slapped her. The air in the hallway crackles with tension.
“You are unbelievable.”
“It’s a distraction,” I snap, digging myself deeper into this hole. “You wear it like a bright red flag that says, look at me.”
“What, you think I’m trying to seduce the entire room every time I put on lipstick?”
“No. Just...” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. “I notice.”
She scoffs, shaking her head. “You’re the only one who’s ever complained about it. And definitely the only one who stares like you do.”
That shuts me up completely because she’s right. I stare.
I stare at her mouth way more than I should. Way more than is appropriate for a fake fiancé who’s supposed to be keeping things professional.
She studies my face for a long moment. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head. “You’re not mad about the lipstick. You’re mad that you want to kiss it off.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Because she’s right and we both know it.
Now it’s hanging between us like a live wire.
I’m hard the entire way to the club.
The team rented out the whole VIP section at Eden’s Gate, one of the newer places downtown. I can feel the music in my chest and the bass thumps through the floor. The second we walk through the velvet ropes, Juliet stops to unbutton her trench coat. When she peels it off, I nearly swallow my tongue.
She’s wearing a clingy black skirt that hugs every curve and a strappy crop top that shows off several inches of toned stomach. The top has intricate cutouts that reveal tantalizing glimpses of skin. My eyes bug out. Her ass looks incredible in that skirt and the fabric is so thin I can see the outline of her body underneath.
There’s no way she’s wearing underwear under that thing.
I hate that I noticed. Hate more that she’s dressed like this in public, where every asshole with eyes is going to be looking at what’s mine. Even if it’s fake, even if it’s temporary, for the next four months she’s supposed to be mine.
“Jesus Christ, Juliet.”
She looks over her shoulder at me, all innocence. “What?”
