“You invited me to sit at your table!”
“Uh, because you’re my sister’s friend? And you wandered by.”
“And then you lured me in, blabbing on and on about your stupid band for like an hour, as if you even wanted to talk shop with me. To make your date jealous!”
I laughed.
She pushed at me and I let her go. “It’s true!” she spluttered, indignant.
“It’s bullshit, is what it is. If we talked about my band it’s because you were asking me questions. Snooping for Danielle Duke.”
Her jaw dropped. “I was working!”
“So was I.”
“You played me! That’s what everyone’s saying. Stupid, sugary-sweet Angeline, falling for the lies of Johnny O like a dumbass ice cream lover while the whole world watches—”
“What the fuck are you even talking about?”
“—the latest bimbo to fall prey to his duplicitous charms!”
“That’s quite a story. Who wrote it?”
“Danielle Duke. Myboss. And like, everyone on Twitter.” She slid her hands down her giant T-shirt, like she was expecting to find a pocket containing her phone, so she could offer up evidence of said Tweets. When she came up empty, she looked down, confused.
Jesus.The girl was a disaster right now. Her purse was on the floor next to her, though she seemed to have no idea. And where were her fucking pants?
“People see what they want to see,” I informed her. “We had a conversation. At a public event. You’re my sister’s best friend. You’re interning with Danielle Duke. We work in the same industry. And since you haven’t clued in yet, your boss hates me.”
“I wonder why?” she said dramatically. “And thanks to you, she’s not my boss.” She felt around her backside for her personal effects, still looking for that missing pocket. This time when she wavered, I resisted the urge to steady her.
Let her fall on her ass if she didn’t want my help.
“Angeline.”
She looked up, blearily, at the sound of her name. Almost like she’d forgotten I was here.
“Where’s your purse?”
She blinked at me.
“It’s on the floor, sweetheart,” I filled her in.
The expression on her face changed as she held my eyes. Softened. “You saved me from those guys…” Suddenly, she was looking at me a lot like she did that night, three years ago. When I kissed her. At least, that was how I remembered her looking at me.
Awestruck.
And totally fucking confused.
I couldn’t blame her for being confused that night. Or for walking away from that kiss. Because why the fuck was I kissing her in the first place?
Several reasons.
One, she was there. Two, she was beautiful. Three, I was pretty sure she’d been hot for me for a while. And four, I was completely fucked up that night over shit that had nothing to do with her.
Oh, and five, I had a long history of poor decision making when it came to women.
I fucking knew, even when I kissed her, that I shouldn’t have. That I was the bad guy in that situation. I was often the bad guy. I knew she had a boyfriend. In that moment, I just didn’t care.
