Fucking gross.How does someone flirt with another person when they have a girlfriend? He went down on me not even a month ago and now he’s dating someone.
I scoff, walking ahead of him into the mall. I can hear Blake trying to catch up, but I pay him no mind as I stalk towards the store that I’d came here for.
Ugh. This is why I refuse to deal with men. As soon as you start talking to someone with the intention of flirting with them, you find out that they’re a two-timing weasel that wants to have his cake and eat it too.
The nerve of men.
This is why I think all men should be eradicated, not only do they do shit like that but they also mansplain everything. Like what is up with that—
“I got you a donut! I hope you like the regular pink ones with sprinkles. It was the only one they had,” Blake calls out to me, jogging at my side with a large pink donut covered in rainbow sprinkles in his hand.
What was I saying about men? Right—I hate—
“I also got an Oreo one just in case.” He shrugs, holding up a pink box in the other hand.
I stop in my tracks and glare at him—so maybe Blake Wilder knows that the way to my heart is through donuts, that doesn’t change the fact that he’s a two-timing weasel. But I do take the box from him. I can’t let a perfectly good strawberry donut go to waste.
I thank him quietly as I stuff my face and ignore his light chuckles as we enter the first store. We shop around in silence for a few minutes with him showing me random clothes and me grimacing at his questionable choices in clothing.
One of the shirts said “DILFs make me horny” …I don’t even know how that ended up in a store like this.
“How about this,” he starts, taking a sip of the red slushy that he ordered. I pause in my casual clothes scrolling and look up at him.
“I find four outfits for you, and you do the same, wefilm you trying them on for the project, and then we each answer a question from our respective lists. That wayweget work doneandI can style you simultaneously,” he offers,shrugging nonchalantlybutI can see through the act. His eyes tell me how eager he is for me to agree, so I do.
What’s the worst that can happen?
I’ll tell you what the worst that can happen is.I’m standing in the middle of a secluded dressing room with Blake Wilder smiling from ear to earsittingon a beige leather couch holding a camcorder up to record me.
But that’s not the bad part.
The bad part is that he has me dressed like that one guy from thatonemovie who wears baggy jorts and shirts that weirdly fit a niche aesthetic but make me look like a homeless bimbo with bows.
“You lookadorable” he coos from the couch, recording me from head to toe.
Pouting, I look down at myself and sigh. “I look like I went shopping in my dad’s closet from the 90s.”
“So, fashionable?” he teases, amused at seeing medressed completelyunlike myself. Thenerve of this man. I flip him off before turning back on my heels toward the fitting room.
I’ll show him fashionable.
Hmph.
The shirt I picked out is a white slim-fit blouse, the kindthat the super-hot secretaries in office romances wear—yeah, that type.I paired it with low-rise jeans that hug my ass in all the right ways and flare out a bit around my shins. But instead of buttoning the shirt top to bottom, I only do the three in the middle, exposing my belly ring and some light cleavage.
I’d say that this is the perfect “confidently going to tell my mother off” brunch outfit. But wait, is this too much? Is it bland? There isn’t any pink in this outfit…should I add a pink accessory? Fuck—
“Hey, Princess, you good in there?”
“Just a second!” I call out and take a deep breath.It’sfine, this is all fine.I psych myself up to walk out, thisoutfit doesn’t have to be the best. It just has to look—
A whistle catches my attention as I walk down thehall of the dressing roomto where Blake is seated on the couch.He’s smiling so brightly thatI’m taken abackmomentarily,as I look at him.
“Well?” I ask, looking down at the clothing before doing asmallspin.
“You are magnetic, Cleo Jones. I don’t know how one woman can make both dad clothes and business chic look ethereal, but you did it.”
The comment catches me so off guard that I don’t know what to do with myself, so instead of responding, I turn on my heels with a stupid smile and scurry back toward the dressing room.
