doorway.
But as my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach, I wonder if the one to break first will, in fact, be me as he predicted.
The bastard was right.
And how I hate him for it.
It’s been five days. Just five measly days without laying eyes on Finn, and wouldn’t you know it, I do miss the cocky asshole. So much so that, when I realized this afternoon was his big game, the most idiotic thought flew by my head—to call in sick and see him play. Thankfully, sense slapped me upside the head before I did something as stupid as going to a college football game just to see the quarterback strut his stuff. There will be plenty of jersey chasers there for him. He doesn’t need me to make a cameo and add to the slew of girls calling out his name, eager to lick the sweat off of him after he’s led the Sharks to another win.
No way am I putting myself in that position. Maybe I’d forget the bastard entirely if he didn’t send me a text every day to remind me of his existence. It’s not like he hears a peep out of me.
Monday – Pretty Boy: Miss me yet? I bet you do.
Tuesday – Pretty Boy: You’re such a stubborn little thing, aren’t you? But you’ll break.
Wednesday – Pretty Boy: Still not backing down, huh? Always the brat.
Thursday – Pretty Boy: I dreamed about you today. I can still taste you on my lips.
Friday – Pretty Boy: Are you even getting my texts? Maybe it’s for the best if you aren’t.
Today – Pretty Boy: I miss you in my arms, Stone. I really fucking do.
Damn it all to hell!
How is a girl supposed to hold out when she gets texts like these? I swear he must love seeing me squirm. But it will be a cold day in hell before I admit to his face that I miss him too. That I think about him non-stop when I have other things I should be focusing on. I knew he’d be a distraction, I just never assumed he’d be this all-consuming.
I hate the Northside prick. He’s ruining everything.
I hear someone clear their throat behind me, reminding me that I’m at work and should have my act together.
“What’s your poison?” I ask, turning toward another drunkard who has nothing else to do but come to Big Jim’s on a Saturday night.
“Poison, huh? If it’s all right with you, I’ll stick to beer.”
I place both hands on my hips, staring down Finn’s black-haired—and probably black-hearted—friend.
“Easton Price. As I live and breathe. This is your second visit in just a few months. Let me guess. Is the Southside growing on you?”
Easton looks left and right, his bored expression rivaling my own. I’ve got to admit that, while Finn is beautifully transparent with his emotions and thoughts, Easton is the exact opposite. His slanted smile holds secrets while his silver eyes give none of them away. The man that sits before me is an illusion. I pity whoever falls prey in wanting to unravel his puzzle. Some things are just better off not being solved.
I get him his beer, but he makes no move to even touch the bottle. Instead, his eyes lock on mine, making sure I stay rooted to my spot.
“If you have something to say, Easton, why not do us both a favor and just say what’s on your mind.”
“Can’t I just enjoy the view?” he asks with a knowing look, eyeing me up and down.
“Nothing here for you to look at,” I reply sternly, not one bit pleased with his flirtatious act. “If that’s what you came for, you’re shit out of luck.”
“Good to know,” he says with a thin smile. “But you’re right. I didn’t come all this way to drink or take in the scenery. I came because Finn’s my friend.”
“Is he now?”
“He is. The best one I have,” he adds with such conviction that I almost believe him.
“And what does that have to do with me?” I reply, looking at my nails to avoid his harsh face.
“Don’t act cute, Stone. That shit might work with Finn, but not with me.”
“Is that so?” I mumble, not at all bothered by his dark tone.
He lets out an aggravated sigh, this time picking up the bottle of beer and taking a swig. He keeps the bottle in his hands as he stares at the ring instead of looking back at me.
“I think you know by