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Hell, she might not even know yet that she's mine and that we're meant to be together.
I'll change that as soon as possible, and I'll do it here, in front of Posh.
Whitney needs to know she's my girl, and if she doesn't yet know that, if she's still hesitant about being with me, well, this will help.
As she approaches, it's obvious that she's nervous. Her hands are clasped together tightly, and she's walking hesitantly.
She looks around, a little worried as she sees me standing here, and I feel bad for putting that look on her face.
She's dressed in a long white gown, and it's obviously brand new. You can tell how brand new it is because it hugs her body tightly, and it's a little too big for her. She's carrying it and hugging it to her chest, almost like it's a lifeline for her. The only piece of jewelry she's wearing is a simple pearl necklace, and her hair is hanging in long, loose curls that frame her face and rest just below her shoulders.
I watch her approach, and I know I'm staring, but I can't seem to help myself. She looks too pretty in her white dress. She looks too sweet.
Too innocent. That's what she is.
Her friend follows her, her cheap-looking, over-the-knee black boots clacking loudly on the concrete. Her dress is a little shorter than Whitney's and more colorful, but it stops just above her knees.
It's like comparing a masterpiece with an art student's work, though.
Whitney outshines her friend so much so that I can't even spare a glance at the poor girl.
Whitney is prettier. Whitney is softer. Whitney is better. And it's nothing against the other girl. She's just not my Whitney.
My Whitney is perfect.
And she'smine.
"Well, hello, there, handsome," Whitney's friend, Posh greets me a little too flirtatiously. "What's a handsome guy like you doing out here at this time of night?"
I cast the girl a disapproving look and then let my gaze rove over to Whitney, frowning.
"Does your friend always put you in danger by speaking so flippantly to strangers?"
Whitney lets out a nervous laugh before she questions, "Are you saying we're in danger, Jon?"
Posh's eyes go wide as saucers as they flit between Whitney and me. "Wait? You two know each other?"
Whitney's cheeks color before she shrugs. "We met last night when I snuck out for a walk."
Posh's eyes light up with glee as if she knows there's more to the story than her friend is telling her. "And you didn't tell me, you bitch!" She slaps Whitney playfully on the arm.
"What happened? What happened? What happened?"
Whitney blushes more, glaring down at the ground like a little girl who's been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
"Nothing really. I mean, we talked."
Whitney won't even look at me, but Posh can't tear her eyes away from me.
I ignore Posh and keep all my attention focused on Whitney.
"Nothing?" I ask her, my chest tightening as my suspicions that Whitney is trying to write everything we did off are confirmed.
She doesn't answer me, so I close the distance between us.
I know she's lying. It wasn't nothing to her, and there's no way in hell I'm going to let her leave here without hearing her admit what we are to each other.
"Where are you two girls off to all dolled up like that?"
