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This woman is acing it.
“It’s because of DJ Master Klau$!” she blurts out.
Huh. Okay. Didn’t see that coming.
I have no idea how to respond to that.
“It was this tiny little thing forever ago where he produced my album, then we broke up, then he sued, then the label had to settle, then the album sort of… didn’t happen. Anyway, the details aren’t important. What’s important is that I’m not allowed to date my producers anymore.”
I stare at her.
Still staring.
“Say something,” she says, biting her lip. Blue-glass eyes blink back at me with a hint of apprehension.
Say something? I don’t even understand what’s happening.
“You’re not allowed? What does that mean? Whose rule is that?”
“The label.”
“Any producer?”
“No. Just the ones I’m working with.”
“So… me. I’m the only person on this planet you’re ‘not allowed’ to date.”
“Yes. Pretty much.”
“Great,” I mumble.
She sighs and pushes off my lap to take the seat beside me again.
“And this is in writing? Is that even legal?”
“Not in writing, but you know how it is.”
I don’t, apparently.
“The point is, I really like you. Like, a lot, but we can’t be together for a bunch of reasons.”
“I see.”
I don’t really. I just don’t know what else to say. What can I say? I suspected from the beginning I didn’t have a chance with her, I just couldn’t have guessed the reason why.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Do you hate me now?”
“Hate you?” I ask, squinting over at her. “Why would I hate you?”
“Because I’m a femme fatale.”
I snort a laugh. Can’t help it. She glares at me.
“What, you don’t think I could be one?”
“No.”
She crosses her arms. “I could!”
