Page 11 of Selfie
“Of course,” everyone seems to murmur as one.
“Where are you going?” Charlie asks innocently.
I have to forgive her because she’s eleven. But for fuck’s sake, hell hath no fury like a preteen with no filter. Narrowing my eyes, I answer, “To the bar. For an alcoholic drink because I am most definitelynotpregnant.”
Feeling self-conscious, I pull up on the neckline of my dress for the millionth time as I lurk by the bar. The bartender has passed by at least a dozen times, but I can’t get his attention at the far end of the counter. He’s too busy tending to the mosh pit that has centralized around the beer taps. I’m unbothered. It’s notlike I’m in a hurry to get back to my table after the way my sister humiliated me.
She wasn’t always like this. Her unleashed sass is a new development. Every time I want to smack her right across the face, I force myself to picture chubby, pink cheeks, twinkly bright blue eyes, and little blond pigtails. It’s hard to stay mad at five-year-old Charlie. She was so damn cute. And I know that sweet little girl is still in there,somewhere.
I’m not even really angry at her overt curiosity. It was an inappropriate time to ask me if I’m pregnant, sure, but her question hurt because her observation was spot-on. This is an old party dress and it used to fit me much better. Now that I’m off my medication, I’m gaining weight. Evidently, it’s noticeable.
But what choice do I have? Food, shelter, phones, internet, and school supplies are all more crucial than my pant size. It doesn’t mean my expanding waistline isn’t tormenting me. I’m dieting—and by dieting I mean, hardly eating. But every time I step on the scale, the number keeps creeping up.
“Can’t get a drink?”
I’m so startled, I yelp like a puppy. To my left, a strikingly handsome—oh screw the formalities—a smokin’ hot, sexy Adonis with golden-brown hair and deep blue-green eyes is staring at me.
“Where’d you come from?”
“Thin air, apparently.” He smirks. “I thought you saw me. I didn’t mean to scare you.” For the briefest moment his gaze drops to my chest before snapping back to my eyes. It was so quick, it’s possible I imagined it. Or maybe it was even unintentional. Either way, it summoned my self-consciousness again and I yank up on the neckline of my dress. The problem is I yank too hard, causing my miniskirt to ride up so high my underwear is exposed. Quickly overcorrecting, I hastily pull the dress down and I swear I can almost hear thepop, popas mybreasts break free from the deep V-neck.Oh, dammit to hell.With one hand clenched around my neckline, and the other fiercely gripping the hem of my dress, I silently vow to throw this outfit away the moment I get home.
“Are you okay?” He looks genuinely concerned for my sanity.
“You checked me out,” I say, unclutching my dress. “My sister just told me I’m too fat for this dress and bursting out all over the place, so I…” I roll my wrist in a manner that saysetcetera. I don’t need to elaborate. He saw firsthand the awkward dance I just did.
“You have scratch marks on your chest.”
“Excuse me?” His statement takes me completely off guard.
“I wasn’t checking you out. You have red marks here.” He pats his chest, illustrating the area of concern. “That’s what caught my attention. It looks like somebody tried to grab you. Not to mention you’re standing here alone by the bar, fidgeting, looking like you’re about to cry. I was putting the pieces together.”
“Oh, I must’ve accidentally scratched myself.” I’ve been fussing with this dress too much. But I’m shocked at his observation. How long has he been watching me to come up with that hypothesis? “I’m perfectly fine. Outside of the whole sister-calling-me-fat thing.”
“Sisters can be a pain.”
Understatement.“So you get it.”
He clamps one eye shut and grimaces. “Honestly? I’m an only child. But it seemed like the right thing to say at the moment.”
Little beads of sweat form on my spine.Holy hell. Here we go.First I overheat, next comes the loud, dorky laughter, and if this man doesn’t run right now, he’s going to be lassoed by my incessant chatter all night. At twenty-three, I still haven’t mastered flirting. Probably better not to risk it with a man thisgood looking. I see more humiliation in my future. Smiling, I turn around, hoping he gets the hint.
“And no offense to your sister, but she needs to get her eyes checked. Your dress is…” I spin back around when he trails off. His gaze is shifted to the side like he’s trying to buy time.
“Is?” I prod.
“It looks nice on you.” He lands on a safe answer, instead of something more provocative, and there’s a little drop of disappointment in my stomach.
“You were concerned I was attacked. You’re keeping a pretty safe distance between us. And you most definitely weren’t checking out my rack. So, are you genuinely a nice guy, or is this all an act? Because if it is,bravo.You’ve really committed to the character.”
He laughs heartily. “Before I came over here, for some reason I got the impression you were shy.”
“Well now, don’t you feel silly?” I beam proudly as I hold out my hand. “I’m Spencer.”
“Nate.”
As we shake, I notice two things. First, my thumbnail is already chipped from the manicure I gave myself this morning with the cheap drugstore nail polish. Second, he’s wearing a two-hundred-thousand-dollar watch. I recognize the crown logo, the unique icy-blue dial, and triple counters. That’s a collector’s watch. I know this because the very same Rolex is on Jesse’s vision board right next to a bright orange Lamborghini Urus.
I always dreamed of a family. Jesse dreamed of being filthy rich.
