Page 17 of Personal Foul
“Of course, of course.” Isabelle waves me off. “It’s still new, I’m sure. That’s probably why you haven’t said anything. You’re so private that you were wanting to wait until it was official.”
My smile feels a lot more like a grimace, but no one seems to notice. “Right. Yeah, of course. You know me.”
“Better than anyone!” Isabelle quips. “But seriously, Charity. Thank you so much. This might be just the push Andrew and I need.”
Thankfully, conversation turns to the best ideas for double dates, with everyone firing off ideas and suggestions—dinner? Some kind of activity? Movies don’t allow for any interaction, so that’s out. Ice skating is closed for the season and it’s too cold for something outside … Fortunately, I don’t need to do much more than nod or hum when asked a direct question. No one seems to expect me to make any suggestions of my own.
Until Isabelle eventually turns to me. “What do you think, Charity? Do any of these ideas sound like something Dylan would go for?”
I open my mouth, but I’m not sure what to say. I have no idea what Dylan would go for. Finally, I shake my head and shrug. “I don’t know. I’ll ask, though, okay?”
Isabelle gives me a knowing grin. “Oh, right. I get it. Your relationship hasn’t had a whole lot of time for talking yet, huh?”
All the girls laugh, and I chuckle along. It’s true. We haven’t done a lot of talking. But definitely not for the reasons they think.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dylan
Charity seems unaccountably nervous the next day at my place. Is she still feeling weird about what happened in the student center? I thought we’d cleared that up …
Besides, it’s not like I actually kissed her. It was just a peck on the cheek. Not like I yanked her head back and tongue-kissed her or something. And it was necessary to sell our supposed relationship.
I’m doing that forhersake, after all. You’d think she’d be a little more grateful.
Finally, after too many times of her staring at me, then looking away as soon as I make eye contact, clearing her throat, and scuttling away, I’ve had enough. “Chastity,” I bark. That has the predictable effect of having her marching back into the living room, skirt flouncing, face red from barely controlled temper.
But she puts on a nearly believable show of innocent curiosity. “You bellowed?” she asks sweetly.
I look up at the ceiling for a second. As much as I love the way she talks back to me, it’s still irritating. “I did. Is there something that you wanted?”
Her faux innocent look melts away, replaced by that nervousness again. Clearing her throat, she looks away, down at the dust rag in her hands. “I’m not sure what you mean. You’re the one who shouted for me. I thought you wanted something.”
I let out an aggravated sigh and put my book aside. “You keep coming in, staring at me, and then running away when I look up.” I spread my hands in invitation. “If there’s something you need to discuss with me, I’d like it if we could just approach the matter like adults.”
“Right,” she retorts. “Because dressing me up like some kind of revenge porn fantasy is very adult.”
One side of my mouth hitches up in an involuntary grin as my eyes scan over her. She has her red hair twisted up on her head, her cheeks are still pink, and every time she breathes deeply, her tits threaten to burst out of the top. “Well, the outfit did come from an adult store, if you know what I mean.” She huffs and rolls her eyes, but I’m glad that we’re communicating more normally. “Seriously, though. What is it? Do you need to change what time you come over tomorrow or something? I know I’m an asshole here, but I’m not entirely inflexible. Spit it out. We can figure it out.”
She glances at me, then looks away again, but doesn’t scamper off at least. I wait, trying my best to be patient, though it’s especially difficult at the moment.
Finally, my patience is rewarded. “It’s not the schedule,” she says quietly. “It’s, um …” She clears her throat again, but doesn’t continue.
“Yes?” I prompt, hoping she’ll just come out with it, clueless about what could make this chick, who’s fearless so much of the time, so uncertain about whatever she has to ask.
“You know my friend Isabelle? The one who’s constantly flirting with your friend Andrew Maloney?”
I nod, but don’t say anything.
She clears her throat again. “Well, um, she was hoping that we could go on a double date.”
I blink at her, not understanding. “A double date.”
“With them. You and me. Isabelle and Andrew. For whatever reason, he hasn’t asked her out yet. She found out that you and I are …” She waves a hand between us and pulls a face. “Dating? Or supposed to be dating. And she sees it as an opportunity for her to finally lock Andrew down.”
“I see.” I’m stalling for time, because this is not what I expected to happen from our whole pretend-we’re-dating schtick. I thought I could rile her up by flirting with her in public, get a big reaction by doing things like kissing her on the cheek to keep up pretenses, once again see how far I could push her before she cracks. I want her to find her backbone. I know she has one. But it’s so far buried under this good girl persona. Even this, where she’s asking me to go on a double date with her and her friend. She’s clearly uncomfortable and would rather do anything other than ask me for a favor.
But she’s doing it anyway.
