“Sit down on the couch while I get dressed,” she barks as she points to the other side of the room.
I grab her instead and pull her into me, my hand tangling in the long locks at the back of her hair.
“Scarlett, I like you. But I don’t take orders from anyone. So ye need to get that through your fucking head before you speak to me like that again.”
“Then why don’t you just fuck off,” she suggests.
She’s sullen and I’m hard and my fingers are tight in her hair, pulling her head back so my mouth is above hers.
“I won’t let you ruin this before it even gets started.”
“Fine,” she says. “Then let me go and I’ll get dressed. But I swear to god if you touch any more of my books…”
I smack her on the ass and she glares at me, so I break out the dimples.
“You want to get back at me, sweetheart? Then go slip into something so hot I’ll be suffering all night long even thinking about it.”
She smiles back at me, and its pure evil.
“Just remember you asked for it.”
Twelve
Scarlett
To thineown self be true, and let whoever stands in the way of that, truly know my wrath.
When Rory sees me, he’s stunned into silence.
I do a little spin, really playing it up. The dress is a deep crimson with asymmetrical cuts on the neckline and thigh. The lines cut low into my cleavage and high on my leg.
My mother would choke on her Chardonnay if she saw me in it.
“I’m adorable, right?”
“Adorable isn’t the word I’d use,” he answers gruffly.
“You clean up pretty nice too, sport.”
Now that I’ve taken notice.
He’s wearing dark wash jeans and a white button up with a black vest over the top. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, allowing his ink to peek out.
As far as visual pleasures go, this one isn’t bad. If I was a normal girl, I’d be all over it. The stereotypical bad boy with ink and the flirtatious personality as the cherry on top. But it’s those dimples that he brandishes like a weapon.
Women love them. And there’s no doubt he’ll be turning heads tonight too.
Which is why I have a strategy in place.
“I want to fill you in on the plan for tonight,” I say.
“What plan?” he asks, and it’s a tired question and he’s suspicious and I need to convince him this is fun.
“I think we should act like strangers.”
He stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels, considering my words.
“You want to hustle with me, sweetheart?”
