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Chapter 3
♥?♥?♥
Paula
PAULA COLLAPSED AGAINST HER FRONT DOOR, her giggles subsiding into freaked-out hiccups.
Well.
WELL.
That was one she hadn’t seen coming.
I want you to be my date.
All that whining about her chasing him…accusations of her flirting…all the rudeness of the last few months...and the crazy man turns around andflirts?
No. No, that wasn’t flirting. That was...something else.
Bizarre, was what it was.
Butwhatwas it, exactly? And what kind of ego must be living in that swelled head that he would suggest such a thing?
I want you to be my date.He’d tossed it out in that offhanded way, like it was a phone upgrade he was asking for instead of something far more personal.
Maybe to him it wasn’t personal. Georgette had said he was all business.
Still, what could have given Bastian Spencer the impression she’d be available? Had she not snapped her teeth at him enough? Had he not heard her rants?
And at the last minute on Christmas Eve. It was insulting.
The amount of pampering this guy must get on a daily basis to expect random strangers to fall into line to help him out of a jam boggled the mind. There was nothing to do but shake her head and marvel at such arrogance.
One moment he was unaware of her existence, the next he deems her useful enough to take to a party as a date?
Where “date” could only be a technicality. He clearly did not mean a real date. His invitation, such as it was, had been insultingly businesslike. Georgette was out, and he needed a convenient plus one substitute.
Paula happened to have been there, so he’d elected her for the job.
What an honor, to be used by him!
Or could he have meant it as a joke?
Lord, what if she’d been crazy enough to call his bluff and accept?
She could only imagine. A man like Bastian Spencer would expect Paula to keep her mouth shut and smile and skulk behind him like a good little doll all night. He must not have thought about it hard enough or it would be obvious how wrong she was for that role.
This whole thing was giving her vertigo. Her hand trembled as she lifted the small paper cup to her mouth. She glared at it.
Come on. He asked you out. It’s no big deal. He’s just a guy.
Right. She simply needed to think this through, put it in a neat little box to take out later when she told her friends about it as an amusing anecdote.
Facts. Focus on the facts here.
The facts she knew about her taciturn neighbor could be written on a postcard. She went through them methodically as she gulped down coffee.
One. Bastian Spencer had to-die-for taste in clothes. Well, great. Whoop dee doo. They said clothes made the man. Did he get credit for his taste in clothing when his wardrobe was probably supervised by some fashion expert? Hardly.
