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“Yeah, why?”
“Because it’s inappropriate.”
“Is it now?”
“Yes.” I jerk out a nod, wiping my sweaty hands down the skirt of my dress. “You’re my boss.”
“That I am.”
“And you’re here on a date,” I remind him. “I’mhere on a date, and we should —”
“With a drug dealer,” he bites out.
“What?”
“So I’m asking you again: do youlikehim?”
No, I don’t.
I do not like Evan.
I likehim.
The man I work for. The man who’s never even looked at me, let alone talked to me even once in the last six months, and who’s on a date — a second date — with a woman much better looking than me.
Oh, and who’s acting like a freaking jackass because I made the mistake of showing up at his house.
“He’s not a drug dealer. He works at a cannabis store.”
“He sells pot, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, and pot is not drugs,” I inform him. “In case you forgot, we live in New York. Pot’s legal in New York.”
“For adults. Twenty-one and up,” he informs me back. “You think your thirty-year-old stoner of a boyfriend cares about that?”
“First, he’s not thirty, He’s twenty-seven. He said so himself. And second, I’m sure they ask for ID from their customers.”
“First, twenty-seven, thirty, same fucking difference because he’s too old for you either way. And second, you sure your boyfriend knows how to read? From what I’ve seen all he knows how to do is fly high as a kite and stuff his face with anything that he can fit inside his fucking mouth.”
“Oh my God, he’s not my boyfriend,” I snap. And then just because I can’t stop myself, I continue, “And you know what, I don’t care if he’s stoned or flying high or if he ends up cleaning out this whole restaurant. I don’t even care if he’s thirty or too old for me. I like him and I’m going to date him as much as I want.”
I know that was petty.
And childish.
Or more like teenager-ish.
Something that I’d like to point out that I’ve never been, even though I still am a teenager technically. But this entire crazy situation warranted such a comeback. I mean, who the hell does he think he is? He doesn’t get to tell me who I can or can’t date. He has no right to behave in this despicable manner, no matter the reason.
“You are, huh,” he murmurs.
And I should’ve been happy that his words don’t sound tight or angry anymore.
But I’m not.
Because they sound forbidding. Threatening.
Like he’s thrown down a challenge and it’s up to me to either accept it and challenge back, or simply bow down.
