Page 57 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions
“Of course it fucking matters.” I bit my tongue. He looked small enough as it was. The last thing he needed was to be chewed out. My anger wasn’t directed at him, but at the creep he’d used to date. “Okay.” I blew out a breath. “Does he follow you anywhere? Social media? Anything like that?”
George nodded.
“Where?”
“Picstogram.” George was sounding more despondent by the minute. Dissociating maybe? I dunno. I was quick to pull up his account, and didn’t even have to ask for Brendon’s username. George’s profile was full of pictures of the same ugly cat on his phone screen, as well as a few book reviews, mostly anime comics. I didn’t recognize any of them. The anime I watched was action-oriented, and George seemed to favor romance.
On every post, he only had a handful of likes.
Joe_Milton95 was one of his bigger fans, as well as MrsMiltonDoesHair. The only person who liked each post that wasn’t family, was a guy with no profile picture, and a username with more numbers than words.
Okay…so Brendon liked to keep his footprint online anonymous.
He spent a lot of time following up with George, given the fact that he’d reacted to every fucking post since they’d broken up. Sometimes he’d even comment. Like a creep.
I could handle that.
“Did you ever post him on your account?” I asked, even though I could see that George hadn’t.
“No,” George sighed. “He didn’t want me to.”
“Even better.”
“What?” George turned his attention back to me, that adorable little grimple on his chin returning. “Why would that?—”
“Because. There’s only one way to deal with assholes like this. He won’t leave you alone because in his fucked head, he thinks you’re available.”
“But Iamavailable.” George wasn’t getting it.
“Not to him.” I turned on his phone camera, aimed it at one of his long, deliciously limber thighs. “You can say no, but let me just…” I licked my lips, floored by how fucking bad I wanted to bite his thighs. “Can I touch you?”
I hadn’t asked earlier when I’d touched him.
But…maybe I should have.
George deliberated before he nodded, a quick up and down.
When I lay my hand on his upper quad it nearly enveloped the whole width of it. I groaned, unable to help myself as I fanned my fingers out, stroking along the denim of his jeans.
“How is groping me going to help with?—”
“Hold still,” I aimed the camera and shot a picture of my hand on his leg. The pickle jar was in it, but only a bit—enough to cause intrigue but notdetract from the possessive grip I had on him. And fuck, was it possessive. My fingers digging in, holding him in place like it was my right to do so. “There.” Reluctantly, I removed my hand, flipping the camera around to show him. “Post that. Maybe it’ll get him to back off.”
George stared at the photo, his eyes wide. He licked his lips, pupils expanding as he saw what I saw. How fucking good we looked together. My ring and watch catching the light, tan skin against dark denim. Our size difference evident in the way I dug my fingers in just right.
“You really think this will work?”
“Believe me. It’ll piss him the fuck off. But—” I nodded. “He’ll get the message.”
George studied the picture for a minute longer. I couldn’t read his expression, and I didn’t want to rush him. I figured it was his choice—and as big as I talked, I wasn’t entirely sure my plan would work.
I could only hope.
“Fuck it.” George decided. Then he opened Picstogram again and began the uploading process.
“Caption it…” I said, hovering over his shoulder, my breath tickling his ear. He jumped, but didn’t scoot out of my space. “Big hands are good for opening jars…among other things.”
“No.” George scrunched his nose. “Absolutely not.”
