I wonder how he knows about the condo and the walk-in closet. Momma and her big gossipy mouth, of course.
He’s trying to get to me, to rile me up. I breathe deeply again, determined to not give him what he wants, determined to keep my cool. “So I like shoes. Sue me. Why do you–”
“I bet you have a pair of those red soled shoes,” he snickers. “The ones that cost a small fortune.”
“Louboutins?” I ask, slightly amused. “What if I do? What’s it to you?”
I actually do. Peter bought them for me for my twenty-fifth birthday. I only wear them for special occasions because they’re impossibly high.
He finally turns to face me. “My point is… you’re right to go back. You don’t belong here anymore.”
His words sting… more than I could have imagined. I do still belong here. I haven’t changed that much. So I like fashion and shoes. What’s the big deal?
He’s such an asshole.
I can’t. I just can’t…
“Where do you get off, you freaking jerk,” I scoff. I reach for my purse, dig in and fetch a few twenties, and slap them on the table. “You cover the rest, you dickwad. I’m leaving.”
I stomp away in a huff. Thankfully, the other couple has already left, and there’s no one to witness my little scene.
Not my finest moment. So much for keeping my cool.
I steal one last glance at him and spot a whisper of a smile on his lips.
How I hate him.
