But something in his eyes, in his casual but also tight demeanor, makes me say, “That I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?”
I lick my dry lips. “That I don’t know how babies are made.”
“And howarethey made?”
Stop. Just stop, Callie.
But you know what, I hate that he’s so amused right now.
It makes me want to say it, throw him off, shock him.
So I widen my stance and throw back my shoulders as I say, “They are made when you f-fuck.”
What?
What did I say?
Oh God.
I think I’ve shocked myself. I’ve never ever said that word before, never.
I’ve heard it though. A million times. I have four brothers, of course I’ve heard it. But I’ve never said it.
Not until tonight.
Not untilhemade me say it.
The guy who has gone slightly still. Like he wasn’t expecting me to take the bait.
Well, good.
There. That’ll teach him not to underestimate me.
“Is that the first time you’ve said that word?” he asks mockingly, with his eyes narrowed.
I hate that he makes me feel so breathless and young. “Why, are you proud that you made me say that word for the first time?”
His jaw moves, that stubbled, sharp thing. It tics for a moment before he says, “Not particularly, no.”
“Well –”
“Don’t ever say it again.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t suit you.”
I’m so confused.
Did he just… tell me not to say the F word?
He did, didn’t he?
But that’s…
Who isheto tell me that? Who is he to tell me anything?
