6:32 p.m.
Why ‘deadly’ hot? Is he the hottest guy you’ve ever seen? Bet he is
6:42 p.m.
Is that why you dumped that Sillas dude? Because you met your mate? Or are you gonna keep dating other guys anyway?
7:12 p.m.
Why aren’t you answering. What are you doing.
No question marks.
7:28 p.m.
I was joking about the kissing. I’m sure he wants to kiss you badly. Even if you’re a garden gnome.
7:32 p.m.
Yvaine.
My brain felt like it had been microwaved. That many texts in one day was more than I usually got in a week—and why he even bothered with those details about my mate was a mystery.
I exhaled, thumb hovering, then typed back.
Sorry, I was studying. I turned off the phone for a while.
He’s too much for my sanity, hence ‘deadly’ hot.
Before I could address the other messages, a reply popped up.
Since when’s being hot a bad thing? You’d prefer an ugly, five-foot mate? And why tf did you turn off your phone? That’s dangerous
Of course it’s not a bad thing! I don’t care about physical appearance. But a less pretty mate would keep the fan club at bay
That was meant to be funny.Rudy seemed to think differently.
So first you perv and drool all over your mate, developing a jaw fetish, fantasizing about ladders to kiss him without him getting scoliosis, and now you’re complaining he’s too hot cause you’re jealous of other girls? Logical…not
I laughed. Like, actually laughed. But the more we texted, the more I realized he wasn’t joking. His texts were missing emojis, nicknames. There wasn’t a single wink.
I’m certainly not the perv here, Mr. Booty Calls™. But apparently my mate is, judging by the number of girls around him today and how friendly he was.
He didn’t respond, so I sent another text while walking.
So, want to guess who he is? :D
I wasbuzzing.Practically bouncing on my feet as I walked home. I wanted so badly to ask questions about my mate. The last time I saw him was already eight hours ago! How was it possible to miss him so much already?
But Rudy wasnothelping me. At all.
In fact, the reindeer vanished for a good forty-five minutes. Meanwhile, I got home, threw on my home robe, and ate some pita, courtesy of Tiziano.
I don’t need to guess anything, you said it already: the dude is a gigantic giant, a player, and too hot for Your Highness.
Somehow, his words reeked of resentment. Maybe I was reading too much into it.
Texting wasn’t the best form of communication, anyway; things could be misunderstood way too easily. I was about to point that out when anotherWar and Peace-length text popped up. So much forI hate texting, Rudy!
