“Not unless he’s psychic,” I mutter, tongue fuzzy and heavy in my mouth.What the hell is in this wine?
“There you go, then. You can’t blame him, Gee, he doesn’t have a clue about you or your past—”
“That’s my point exactly, though,” I hear myself argue. “We hardly know anything about each other. How can he know he wants me?”
Rosie shrugs her shoulders. “Maybe because you’re a knockout? And you’re funny and kind and you give him as much shit back as he doles out? You don’t just stand around and titter at every little thing he says, practically hanging on his off arm like a rabid dog in heat, waiting for him to notice you?”
I sigh. “I just don’t know when this happened.”
“When what happened?”
“All of it. This whole situation. This isn’t—it isn’t—” Why are my eyes watering?
“Don’t cry,” Rosie coos.
I slide the nearly empty glass of wine onto my bedside table and furiously wipe at my eyes with the heel of my free hand. “This isn’t what I wanted to happen tonight, Ro.”
“I know.”
“This isn’t what I wanted to happen in general. I didn’t mean to feel this attraction and these… these jealousy feelings when I think about him with other girls…”
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
“No fucking clue.”
Rosie chuckles. “I guess you could always—Oh my god.”
I wipe my eyes again, but more pointless tears just keep on coming. “What?”
“You’ll never guess who just messaged me.”
“Who?” I ask, standing to pour the rest of my wine into the sink.
I glance down to make sure Rosie’s still there as I pad along my small hallway and into the kitchen – the WIFI in my apartment can be iffy and unreliable in spots – and then I look away. The connection between the two of us bounces about as she quickly thumbs out a reply to whoever is texting her, making me feel a little bit motion sick.
“Hudson.”
Blood rushes loudly between my ears.
“What? Hudson? Hudson’s texted you?”
Rosie nods quickly.
“How did he even get your number?”
“Rex, maybe?” She shrugs. “I know those two are pretty close and Rex has my number in case of emergencies.”
I lick my lips. “What did he say?”
“He wants your number.”
“Mine?” I squawk, the sound loud in my otherwise silent apartment.
“Yep.” Rosie pops the ‘p’ and then giggles gleefully.
“What are you laughing at? Rosie—”
My words die on my lips as my phone begins to vibrate in my hand, an unknown eleven-digit mobile number lighting up my screen. The bright red decline button and the bright green accept button taunt me forming into a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other.
