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Right because sometimes, Matthew’s version of fun was tormenting me.
“Does that mean I can go?”
“We can,” he nodded, glancing at his watch. He shut his laptop and grabbed his coat that was hanging behind his chair. I frowned at him before he grabbed his phone and car keys on the table.
“I can get home just fine,” I pointed out. “No need to be all chivalrous.”
“Who said anything about chivalry, darling?”
I opened my mouth to protest but shut it because I guess he wasn’t offering to drive me home. Instead, I forced a smile at him and nodded, not saying anything else.
The elevator ride was quiet. But the tension that was dancing in the air was restless and almost aching. I didn’t know if it was tension because I was mad at him, or if it was lust. At this point, I didn’t know how I was going to differentiate them.
I side-eyed Matthew to see that he was on his phone again, tapping on the screen as his keys jingled, the keyring looped around his index finger.
I let out a sigh in frustration, shaking my head as I mustered up the strength not to say what was on my mind because right now, this was a competition about who was going to break first. And I was sure as fuck that it wasn’t going to be me.
The elevator pinged when we reached the ground floor, and it was my cue to leave as soon as the doors opened.
“See you around, asshole,” I whispered to him before I stepped out, not giving him the chance to say anything to retort.
As I walked away and heard the elevator ping, my mind came up with a theory. If Matthew was indeed pushing my buttons, then I was going to push back.
So I tested my hypothesis as I sat on the lobby couch and waited.
About ten minutes later, my phone pinged and my smile almost reached my ears.
Matthew: Where are you?
I ignored him.
Matthew: Reagan?
Then my phone started to vibrate with an incoming call from Matthew. I ignored the first two calls and answered him on the third.
“Hello, Matthew,” my voice sang out. I was grinning like the fucking devil because I was right. Matthew had planned to drive me home and he was just trying to see how far I’d go before I’d ask him for a ride—jokes on him.
“Where the fuck are you?” he snapped. Anger laced his voice.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m in front of the bus stop and you’re not here.”
“Maybe I’m already on the bus?”
“You’re not. Because the next bus doesn’t arrive in the next twelve minutes. So where are you?”
“What’s it to you?”
“What do you mean ‘what’s it to me’?” I could hear that he was mad, but I was determined to push him even further.
“I’m on my way home, Matthew.”
“I swear to God, Reagan.”
“What, Matthew?” I challenged.
“I’m not going to repeat myself. Where. Are. You?”
