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“I did. I texted you this morning, right after my parents left,” I stress.
Rachel taps her finger against her pursed lips, contemplating me. “You never denied having sex with Tate. Which is making me hope you actually did, and if that really happened, I need details, like, right now.”
“Hate to disappoint you, but I didn’t have sex with Tate.” I look her straight in the eyes, my gaze never wavering, because I need her to know I didn’t have sex with him. Not even close.
Like I would just give it up to him that easily. I barely know the guy. Not even that sure if I actually like him. He’s tolerable.
I suppose.
Attractive. Can’t deny that.
Kissing him isn’t a hardship, and despite everyone raving over our latest photos, I have to admit I didn’t really feel that much when our lips connected. Not like I did the first time. Maybe that was because it had been such a spontaneous move on my part, but the second one out on the street, when I was irritated with him?
Meh. Not impressive.
“God, I’m so disappointed, but then again, not surprised either. You’re not that type of person,” Rachel says just before she actually yawns.
I’m kind of offended.
And a little hurt.
“What, I’m boring?”
“You’re definitely not boring,” she rushes to say, reaching out to grab hold of both my hands. Like she needs to reassure me. “I’ve never thought you were boring. You’re my best friend. Why would I want to spend time with you if you bored me?”
Valid question, but...
“The yawn threw me off,” I admit, my voice small. “That and you having zero expectations that I would do something so wild, like, I don’t know—have sex with a celebrity.” I shrug, feeling stupid I just admitted all of that. “Ignore me. I’m feeling insecure.”
An exasperated noise escapes her. “Only you would feel insecure when you have a hot man seemingly chasing you every chance he gets. A hot, sexy man who women are screaming over while he wrote a song about you. Like, Scarlett, get the fuck out of here with your insecurities. That man is into you, and you act like it’s no big deal.”
“But—”
“Every single time I go online—which is often, we both know this—there’s another post about the two of you. A video. Twenty videos. New photos. More mentions of the song. The lyrics—which are all about you—though I’m guessing some of them are a lie, like the blow job mention. Did your parents ask you about that yet?”
I shake my head, miserable. I didn’t even think about what they might say after hearing those lyrics. “It’s not like I’ve ever done much.”
“With Tate? Or in general?”
“You already know the answer to that.” I send her a meaningful look. I keep nothing from Rachel.
Not really.
“Listen, he kissed you again out in public, on the freaking street. If that isn’t a declaration of ‘Hey, I like you—wanna go back to my place and do it?’ then I don’t know what is,” Rachel stresses.
I burst out laughing. Only Rachel would put it like that.
“What?” She shrugs, her smile telling me she’s pleased by my reaction. “It’s true.”
“Well, what if I told you that I’m actually dating Tate Ramsey?”
“I’d say you’re full of shit.” She’s still smiling.
“What if I said I wasn’t lying?”
Her smile fades, her eyes growing wider by the second. “Don’t fuck with me, Scarlett. I won’t take this joke well.”
“I’m not messing with you. It’s not a joke.” I shake my head. “I’m telling you the truth. Tate and I... we’re kind of together.”
