This sounds weird, but I like the way he talks about people. It’s never some kind of ploy, like most people do just to highlight something about themselves. When Chase talks about people, it’s like he’s spotlighting them and celebrating their own uniqueness.
I never paid attention to that before.
The truck finally comes into view, so he pulls me faster, making me squeal before he sidles up to the metal counter protruding from the opening. I let go of his hand, noticing him looking back over his shoulder at me, so I turn my face toward the water.
I have to admit he makes me nervous, even after a week of playing house. Maybe it’s because there’s no more sarcasm to use as a shield or the truth to deny, making me feel exposed.
Although I do like being exposed in front of him, so maybe this metaphor is not working. Regardless, I’m nervous.
“Hey,” he shoots out, forcing my face back to his. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
He lifts a brow. “Stop acting like you’re embarrassed to be with me.”
What? I am not that.I mean, no more than normal.
I try and tug my hand away, but he doesn’t let it go. So I rush out a harsh breath. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
“What?”
“What do you mean, ‘What?’ You heard me,” I scold him. “Don’t talk shit about yourself. That’s what you’re doing. You’re not ugly. And you’re insinuating that it’s what I think ... I don’t.”
He chuckles before snapping his jaw shut and kissing my hand.
“One, I don’t think I’m even remotely ugly, and you know it. Two, how are you giving me a compliment that makes me want to jump off a bridge?”
I shrug and smile. “It’s an art form. I’m very good at it ... Top of my class, actually.”
“Mmm.” He smirks. “You’re also good at gaslighting. Tell me something, if you’re not embarrassed, then tell the world I’m your boyfriend. Do it right now. Yell it to the rooftops.”
“Are you high?” I snap.
“On life . . .”
I scowl. He’s so dramatic and insane that it makes me want to impulsively poke him in the eye, but I won’t. I also won’t make a fool of myself yelling that he’s my boyfriend.
That’s dumb. Tom Cruise did that bouncing on the couch, and look what happened to him. He got dawsoned up shit’s creek.
He might’ve deserved it, though.
“Stop being dramatic—”
The middle of my sentence is cut off as I hear “Chase!” from a very peppy voice, and my eyes immediately narrow.
Completely without my permission, although anyone that happy deserves suspicion.
I look in the direction of the voice just in time to see a woman walk out from behind the back of the food truck.
Why does she look like she just stepped out of a surf magazine? This can’t be the owner.
What is wrong with me?
I shove my hands into my back pockets, trying to fix my face.
Jesus, self-diagnosing the Billy shit was one thing, but I think I’m going to need actual therapy about Chase.
She smiles, and I’m almost blinded by her goddamn teeth. Okay, that’s rude.
