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I smirk and hit send. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
A reply bounces back immediately.
From: Julian
To: Bree
What?
A prompt reply is required.
Julian.
I narrow my eyes. Conceited prick.
I type.
From: Bree
To: Julian
I am not interested in a rematch. Find another candidate.
Yours Sincerely,
Bree.
My phone instantly rings, the name Mr. Masters lighting up the screen.
Shit.
“Hello,” I answer.
“What do you mean you’re not interested?”
“It means what it means. I’m not interested.”
“You enjoyed yourself the other night. I know you did.”
“Not as much as you, it seems.”
He stays silent, and I smirk as I imagine his angry face.
“Don’t pl
ay games with me.” He growls.
“I’m not.”
“Is this about Bernadette?”
“Are you deaf, dumb, or just plain stupid?” I snap. “Of course this is about Bernadette.”
“I broke up with her last night.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s not you.”
