“So, what do you do in your spare time?” Max asks, taking a swig of his beer while I take a sip of my cocktail.
It’s really an award-winning question with a million dollar answer. One of these days, I’ll have an actual answer. But the truth is, I don’t really do anything.
No one wants to hear about the girl who hasn’t found anything as interesting as creating outfits or designs and has the opportunity to make them into a reality. The second I tell people I sometimes design clothes for fun and they sell for hundreds throughVoss, I’m no longer seen as an entrepreneur or a stylist. I’m seen as a spoiled rich girl. But if I was a man, it would be so different. If I were my brothers, I’d be getting patted on the back and praised for my skills. In the words of Taylor Swift, “If I were a man, I'd betheman.”
“I like to read,” I say, which isn’t entirely a lie. I do like to read. I just don’t do it a lot or in my spare time. I read enough for class as it is. Sometimes just looking at words gives me a headache.
“Oh yeah?” he asks curiously.
Shit.
He’s a literature major, I forgot. How is he managing to trip me up already? I shouldn’t want to impress him. But, God, having no real hobbies or interests is embarrassing. He seems so put together, educated, and smart. And he’s interested in me for whatever reason, and he doesn’t even know my last name. I cross my toes, secretly crossing my fingers too, hoping he’s not one of those stuck up I’ll-judge-you-on-your-favourite-author types.
“Whose work do you like the most?”
“I lied,” I admit, the words out of my mouth before I can stop them. If I want to try this, I’m going to have to be honest, right? His eyebrow quirks. “I do read, though. Just not in my spare time. I didn’t want you to think I was boring or uneducated or not interesting. Which is crazy because I don’t usually care about what people - especially guys - think about me. I don’t know. I think you kind of intimidate me.”
He studies me silently for a minute. I didn’t have to sayallthat. I’m barely even buzzed, so I can’t even blame it on that. It is the truth though. Usually, being with guys like him, it’s easy and we sleep together, and it’s done. But for some reason, Max is set on making regular appearances in my life and it worries me a little.
“It’s okay,” he says reassuringly. My shoulders drop. “I get that a lot, actually.”
“Really?”
“No.” He smirks. “Besides, I didn’t want to talk about boring literature stuff. I was only asking follow-up questions to be polite.”
“Wow, who knew you were such a gentleman,” I say bashfully, pretending to fan myself.
“I can be,” he says with a shrug, a dimple popping out. He pulls his chair a little closer to mine, our knees touching. The slight contact sends electric shocks straight to my brain and I shiver, only rubbing against him more. “Let’s reverse the questions. You can ask me anything you want to know.”
I ask him where he grew up and he tells me about London and how his dad is a fellow American who met his mom there on business. The poor boy is so naive that he thinks Americans are kinder than British people, which is insane. I’ve been to the UK, and I’ve spent a week in New York. You can guess where I’d want to go on vacation again.
“I think you Brits are bolder than you give yourself credit for,” I laugh.
He nods. “Mostly because we know what we want and we go for it,” he whispers, his voice dropping an octave. I swear the heat has climbed up here vociferously. “You Americans bullshit your way through conversations without telling people what they really want.”
“Is that so?” I ask, trailing my nail up his forearm. I know it drives men insane. From the way I watch Max’s chest rise and fall repeatedly, I know I’ve hit the target. “Why don’t you tell me what it is that you want, Maxwell?”
The end of my sentence ends with a yelp as I stumble off my chair, my back crashing straight into a wall. Max tries to catch me, but his hand only reaches out half-heartedly before he gives up, shaking his head at me or whoever’s behind me.
I swear to God, I better not be getting kidnapped right now because even as I kick and stand on whoever’s toes are behind me, pulling us to the other side of the room, they’re not letting go of me. I look down at the blonde-haired arms wrapped tightly around my front.
No way.
No fucking way.
I tell myself to calm down so I can remove myself from his grip. His claim to my body relaxes when he thinks I’m going to relax and I use the brief moment to leap out of his arms, turning around and facing him.
Evan Branson has a new hobby where he ruins my dates.
I push him in the chest, watching as he stumbles backwards slightly into the chalkboard hung up on the wall. He’s not even saying anything, so I push him again. He just blinks at me like I’m the one who crashedhisdate.
“What the fuck, Branson? Can’t you see I was talking to someone or are you not wearing your contacts today?” I quiz. I’ve stopped pushing him now because that’s getting no answers out of him, and I pin my arms across my chest.
“I can see fine, thank you very much,” he responds, dusting off his shirt. He looks over to where we left Max. “Why are you even giving him the time of day? I’ve never seen you talk to a guy longer than two minutes other than him.”
“Sorry. Could you remind me why that’s any of your business?” I ask.
“If you’re secretly planning to murder him and take all of his money, I can keep that a secret. If not, then I want to know why.”
