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It’s bad enough writing to an agony aunt about my crush.
Then my brother reads it aloud in a bar.
Okay, so my brother didn’t set out to be cruel. He was goofing around with my phone, and he spotted the Dear Hattie column. Why waste a good dramatic reading?
I’ll tell you why: because I’m the letter writer. And the gorgeous chef I wrote about, the one I’ve silently loved for years; the man I said, and I quote, that I’d like to smother in whipped cream and lick it off again? He’s right here.
Listening. Scowling. Staring at me.
Gripping the bar until his knuckles go white.
I didn’t sign the letter. Maybe I can blag my way out of this.
Because my crush would never want me back. Right?
