Page 30 of Just a Little White Lie

O-kay.

I swallow, trying to catch up with why she’s so mad. At me.

She looks like she seriously does want to kill me.

What did I do wrong?

I take a moment to study her, my brain ticking overtime as I try to come up with a theory for her wrath.

Was it the email thing?

It’s gotta be.

Crap. I thought I was being a nice guy. Helping her out.

I didn’t think it’d go so badly.

Turning off the TV, I lean forward with a sigh. “Look, I’m sorry. I was just trying to help you out.” I throw the remote onto the coffee table and look up at her. “You seemed upset and said applying for jobs was too hard, so I thought I’d do you a little favor.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t a favor, and you didn’t have to prank me! Newsflash: you don’t always have to be an asshole!”

“Prank you?” I frown. “What are you talking about?” I stand up and give my T-shirt a little tug.

Why is it so hot in here?

Why do I feel like I’m standing in the principal’s office about to get bawled out big-time?

With a growl, Lauren hitches her dress and stands on the coffee table so she can eyeball me. In fact, she points her index finger so close to my face that I have to lean back.

“You told them I was a dance teacher!”

“What? No.” I draw out the word, shaking my head in confusion. “I thought you taught English.”

“I do!” Her arms flick up like two agitated wings before slapping against her thighs again.

I try to keep my voice tempered. Something needs to cool the fire she’s throwing at me right now. “So, uh… so why do they think you’re a dance teacher?

“Because it’s on my résumé, you idiot!”

No way. She didn’t.

Aw, man. Never work on important stuff when you’re drunk, right?

I should have checked it after all.

Shaking my head, I bite my lip, feeling kind of bad about one: not proofreading it for her, and two: finding this situation just a little bit funny.

“It wasn’t me.” I snicker, then clamp my lips together, trying and failing not to laugh.

She gives me a light shove that barely moves me. Her face buckles with annoyance, and she tries again. This time I help her out and fall back onto the couch.

She’s looking angry-cute with her hands on her hips and that glare. Oh boy. If looks could kill.

For some stupid reason, laughter continues to bubble in my belly.

I raise my hands in surrender, trying to fight these urges as I explain. “I didn’t even open your résumé. I just attached it to the emails I sent. You told me it was done.”

She opens her mouth, obviously ready to tear shreds off me, but then she freezes, a breath catching in her throat, before she rasps, “Oh crap.”

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