Page 33 of Official

How does she do that?

Maybe it’s because she’s honest with me too—that has to be it. I’m just returning the sentiment, is all. She doesn’t have magical powers or anything like that.

We’re just good friends, and that’s the only reason I’m so invested in convincing her to enjoy herself.

It has nothing to do with the fact that it makes me feel damn good to make her smile.

Sam chews the inside of her cheek, and her expression is somewhere between amused and scared. After a brief pause, she picks up her phone and sighs again. “Fine. Let’s see the fucking damage.”

I scoot my stool around the table for a better view as she switches off the airplane mode, and the impending notifications filter in, one after another. They appear so quickly that they make my head spin.

“Jesus,” I mutter.

“This is what I was trying to avoid.” As she slumps over the table, her body—even her soul, it seems—shrinks right next to me, and it guts me. “Shit.”

I peer at the message she points to in her texts—Jason. “What does that prick need twenty-seven messages to say? Christ.”

“I can’t imagine it’s anything good.” She clicks on the messages, one at a time, and most of the recent texts only ask if she’s receiving them.

Using all caps.

“Oh my God. This one.” She points at one of the first messages, where he apologizes for the breakup but says he doesn’t want to be tied to a social media “piranha.” It’s obvious he meant pariah. “He can’t even get the right freaking word.”

“It might’ve been autocorrect,” I blurt.

“Whose side are you on?” she snaps.

“Yours.” I lean back, hands up. “He’s an idiot. You’re beautiful. Better?”

“Yes.” She wiggles on her stool, and a small smile plays on her lips as she scrolls through more of Jason’s messages, each one nastier than the last.

One calls her a bitch.

Another says she’s a selfish attention whore.

My blood boils with every hurtful word thrown at her.

Where the hell does he get off talking to a woman—especially someone as good as Sam—like that?

“Fuck this douchebag. Let me at him.” I reach for her phone, ready to rip him a new one with insults locked and loaded like a cannon.

Puny calves.

Even punier brain.

I have plenty at the tip of my fingers, but she holds her phone out of my reach and shakes her head. “Wait your turn,” she grinds out. “How dare he.” She slams her phone down, her cheeks flushed and redder than the sunburn on her shoulders.

At the table next to us, the pair drops their shrimp and glances in our direction, and I offer them a smile before I lean into Sam. “I’m sorry I asked you to open these here. This requires the walls of one of our private rooms where you can scream and throw shit. Want to get our food to go?”

“Definitely. And a pitcher of skinny margaritas with plenty of tequila.”

“On it.” I tap my knuckles on the table—if only I could flip it over in her honor.

Who the fuck does JasonDouchethink he is, saying that shit to Sam? She’s one of the best people I know and doesn’t deserve to be treated like anything less.

Rage pricks my nerves as I find our server inside by the register and tell her our change of plans, followed by an apology for the abrupt request. From the way she exhales in relief, I’d say we did her a favor, though. The place is packed, and she obviously has her hands full—we’re one less table she needs to worry about.

Once everything is boxed up and sealed, I check out, leaving her a hefty tip.

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