Cassandra purchased this apartment eight months ago, but she moved into Harley’s place shortly after, and rented it out to her sisters.
“Me?” My eyes bulge out of my head. I scope out the room to see who else she could be talking to, but she’s staring directly into my eyes. Robbie is one of Harley’s closest friends and business partner, but he isn’t really my type.
Is he attractive? Sure, I can see why he’s a ladies’ man. He has this cheeky, boyish grin that I know gets him what he wants. And chicks dig that strawberry-blonde hair.
Has he hit on me every single time we’ve been in the same room? Also yes.
Have I ever thought about fucking him? Unfortunately, yes to that, too. But I wouldn’t ever act on it. It was like… a very brief lapse in judgment on my part.
I considered it, then I remembered we share connections to people I adore, and I refuse to make it awkward. Besides, I overheard him tell Harley tonight that he wants a wife and kids, and I wouldn’t be a good wife. I don’t even think I want kids. I wouldn’t know what to do with one, considering I didn’t exactly have a fantastic motherly figure growing up.
“Yes,you. Who else in this room has he tried to hit every chance he gets?” She asks, running her fingers around the rim of her now empty glass. “Certainly not me.”
“Me,” Olive casually responds while opening the cupboard in search of food. Lizzie and I freeze, staring at her. Miss ‘relationships are gross’, and ‘who needs men to feel fulfilled in life?’, and ‘I never drink’, is not only wasted out of her mind right now, but admits that Robbie fucking Crossland hits on her every time he sees her?
I shake my head in disbelief.
Not because I don’t believe that Robbie wouldn’t find her attractive. The Herring girls are all naturally beautiful, but moreso the fact that he hits on her constantly and she’s never said a word.
We have a group chat going, and it vibrates in my pocket every single day. Not once has she ever mentioned him, or any other guy.
Or a girl, for that matter.
“Um, were you ever going to mention that?” Lizzie asks, now oddly sober.
“Why? I didn’t think it was a big deal. We hooked up once. Nothing to report.” She shrugs, taking a sip of her own glass of water before making her way down the hall to her bedroom. Lizzie and I are forced to watch her walk away without finishing the conversation while our jaws are on the floor.
“What!” Both of us shout, chasing down the hallway after her, but she slams her bedroom door in our faces. We hear the click of the lock to let us know she’s done for the night.
Lizzie groans, desperate for something,anythingout of her sister, but knows she’s fighting a losing battle, so she doesn’t bother. “Goodnight, Jenna,” she shouts, her voice frustrated. But I’ve grown really close with these two girls over the last six months of secret wedding planning. They’ll both be over it come morning.
Though, if I know Lizzie Herring like I know I do, she won’t let it slide. And if I know Olive Herring like I know I do, her lips are gorilla glued shut.
If we’re lucky, we’ll hear about it in a song at one of the many shows she has lined up in Grangewood Creek over the next few months.
***
Morning comes and goes quickly, and as suspected, Lizzie attempted every single tactic known to man to get her twin sisterto spill the beans, while Olive remained tight-lipped, adamant that she doesn’t kiss and tell. I just sat and watched the whole thing unfold while sipping a cup of coffee, glad I’m not the focal point of the conversation.
I’m only here in Grangewood for the day, flying back to California tonight, arriving to a hectic schedule, with barely a chance to even scratch my ass. Yet, past me thought it was a fantastic idea to get drunk two nights in a row while living off next to no sleep. It’s like I just forgot all about my busy calendar, my abundance of new clients, and the man who hasn’t left my mind even once since I rushed out of his hotel room yesterday morning.
I told Cass about him while I was doing her hair and makeup, and she asked for details. I kept thewhereandhowto myself. I didn’t need her breathing down my neck about how downright stupid it was to stay in the hotel room of a man I’d just met.
She asked for his name, too, so she could no doubt do some wild, in-depth, internet search on him, but I didn’t have a name to tell her.
He had to be somebody, though, right? You don’t get invited to those parties unless you’re famous, or about to become it.
But because I agreed to hisno namerule, I had nothing else to tell her.
I kind of liked it, though.
It added to the mystery, the sexual tension, and overall chemistry we surprisingly had. I’ve been with my fair share of men in the past, but they were all very much a ‘get the job done and go’ type of situation.
They would always get what they wanted out of me, andsometimesI got what I wanted out of them. Mostly, though, I found my release in my trusty toy waiting in the top drawer of my nightstand.
With all the pleasure Mr. GQ had given me, it almost feels as though I can throw my rubber, vibrating friend in the trash, and I’d still be able to live happily.
I mean, I won’t do that—I’m not stupid—but that’s how good it felt.
