Are you? Are you?I think to myself in the most condescending tone as she continues.
“You ghosted me.”
He shakes his head, then looks at me, but I give him zero reaction. He still stares only at me while he speaks.
“I catered a surf event that Coral manages when I first got here.” He looks back at her. “I don’t remember having your number, sooo ...”
“Oh,” she purrs, “we should totally fix that today.”
I’ll break his phone and throw it in the ocean ...along with myself because I’ve literally lost my mind. If I don’t stop this ...
“Um.” He looks between us. “How about we get some tacos before we catch up?”
She laughs and nods, waving us over to the food truck before she walks inside. I swear to god, she’s the girl who makes her ponytail swish when she walks.
Chase looks down at me, giving me an empty laugh. “We never hooked up or anything.”
“And I care why?” I snark, cutting my eyes at him, knowing I care because I’m a fucking loser that likes the guy who ghosted Coral.
Fuck. Me.
“Just putting it out there,” he whispers as she walks inside the truck.
I shrug, really hoping for nonchalant, but I’m probably not even at fucking chalant. “I mean, I’m sure a lot of guys are into that type, so why wouldn’t you be.”
It’s not so much a question but more inner rage.
Because I like him so much. And by like him, I mean he makes my heart skip a beat. Skip a fucking beat.
I didn’t even know I still had one.
But I do, because it’s fluttering over his stupid smile and his dumb clothes and even the way he laughs at all his own jokes, but mostly the way he always looks at me like I’m the only fucking person in the room.
Still, I’m not yelling that I like Chase Beckett for everyone to hear.
Because this is the worst day of my life. I’m the hot girl crazy about the guy who embodies the Sandlersabadooo.
I gasp quietly. Is he right? Am I embarrassed? But I already know the answer.
Little Miss Irritates-the-Shit-Out-of-Me shows up at the window, perky and adorable, smiling directly at Chase, interrupting my thoughts.
“All right, hot stuff, what can I get you?”
Cyanide.
I don’t mean to make a sound, but I do, and it’s a chortle. It’s unladylike and draws his eyes to my face.
“Is it funny somebody called me hot stuff?”
I narrow my eyes on him as Beach Barbie volleys between us. “I mean, kinda. I guess you are to some ... from like far away. Or when they haven’t met you.”
What am I saying? What am I doing?
But I know what. I’m mean flirting. I can’t help it. He brings out the worst in me.
I’m also marking my territory.
He grins, slutting out that damn dimple.
