Page 65 of The Fangirl and the Grump

I.

ChapterTwenty-Eight

Keegan

Saturday mornings are typically busy at Moonstone Mystic, and today is no exception. All of our regulars show up early, before the tourists come in droves for some coffee and breakfast before they set off for a day of exploring.

I’m pleasantly sore after staying at Trace’s last night. It was the first time we’d seen each other since our little phone sex adventure on Wednesday, and he was intent on proving to me how horny he’d been for me ever since.

He proved it, all right. And I loved every second of it.

The bells over the door jingle, and when I look up to greet our newest customer, I see Pressley hurrying toward me. She looks a little flushed, and her movements are erratic, putting me immediately on edge.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as soon as she stops on the other side of the counter.

“What? Nothing,” she says, shaking her head violently. Leaning over, she lowers her voice, saying, “But I really need to talk to you. Can you take a break?”

We’re in the middle of a slow period, and when I shoot a glance at Willow, she nods and jerks her head toward the back. I mouth a thank you and wave Pressley in that direction. We meet at the end of the bar, and she scoots around it to precede me through the kitchen and back to Willow’s office.

I close the door behind us and turn to find Pressley pacing back and forth.

“What’s going on?” I ask when she doesn’t immediately start speaking.

“You should probably sit down. Hell, so should I.”

With that, she plops into one of the chairs in front of Willow’s desk, and I take the other. She’s gripping her phone so tightly, it looks like it might crack.

I narrow my gaze. Did Bram text her? Did he finally ask her out?

“Do you remember when we made that BingBang video, taste-testing different mixed drinks a few weeks ago?” she asks, catching me completely off-guard.

I nod slowly. I do remember. We were back in Seattle, before my life fell apart. Madison and Sloan had dates, so Pressley and I decided to get drunk and have a sleepover at her place. She set up her phone on a tripod and recorded us mixing drinks and taste-testing them while acting goofy and dancing in our pajamas.

We were just having fun, and when Pressley suggested uploading it to BingBang, a popular video-streaming app, I’d drunkenly agreed that it was a magnificent idea.

I kind of forgot all about it after, well, my life went to hell in a raging dumpster fire, and I can’t figure out why she’s bringing it up now. As if she senses my confusion, Pressley bounces in her chair and taps at the screen of her phone.

When she turns it around, I flinch when I see myself jumping up and down and swinging my hips like some eighties aerobics instructor as I proclaim Planter’s Vodka and strawberry lemonade to be the best drink in existence.

“Oh, God,” I murmur with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I look like an idiot.”

“No,” Pressley says quickly. “Don’t look at the video. Look at the views.”

I look to the margin of the video, and my eyes flare as my head jerks back.

“Is that right?” I whisper.

“Yes,” she squeals. “We’re at over three million views, and it’s still climbing.”

“After…” I say, pausing to do the math, “seven weeks?”

She grins and turns the screen back toward her before tapping at it. Then she flips the phone to face me again.

“And look at the comments.”

I take the device from her hand and scroll through. Of course, there are the usual troll comments calling us “cringe.” Some comments on my weight. Pressley’sfuckability.Things like that.

But those comments are far-outweighed by positivity. People talking about how much they’d love to be friends with us because we look so fun. People talking about the drinks we made, how they tried them, and which ones they preferred. Thanking us for the recommendations. Calling us gorgeous and hilarious.

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