“That last time I checked I was,” he replied.
“Then you have got to be the dumbest son of a bitchy bastard,” I retorted, feeling the prickly rise of irritation and latching onto it.
The lines around his mouth twitched and he looked away, compressing his lips.
“You think this is funny?” I planted my hands on my hips and glared up at him. “What’s funny is the fact you think you’re going to ‘get deep in me’ again. I’d rather pluck each stray hair on my body one by one instead.”
His gaze swung to mine. “You sure as hell didn’t have a problem with getting naked with me two weeks ago.”
“I didn’t. Then you opened your mouth with your chauvinistic pig shit and ruined all the warm and fuzzies.”
“Chauvinistic pig?” he repeated, brushing the hair back from his forehead. “Okay. I know I’m a dick. Trust me, but you and I—”
“We had one night. You’re right. We hooked up. You left my place without an ounce of expectations between us, and I was cool with that. That’s what I wanted. But you obviously think the whole damn world revolves around you.” My eyes narrowed. “I enjoyed what we did, but just because I like sex doesn’t mean I’m desperate, a whore, or stupid.”
He took a step back as his hands dropped to his waist. Surprise flickered across his face. “I never said you were those three things.”
“You didn’t?” I laughed dryly. “You might not have said those three words exactly, but the fact that you think I came here looking for just you insinuates that I’m desperate. The fact that you think you can get with me after speaking to me the way you did tells me you don’t think very highly of me. And after one night with me you think you can dictate to me where I can go and what I cannot do? You must think I’m stupid.”
His brows flew up. “Steph—”
“Don’t.” I lifted a hand, stopping him. My middle finger might have been extended as I stepped around him and snatched up my purse. “This conversation ends with a—how about you go fuck yourself.”
Chapter 6
Dressed in cotton sleep shorts and an old Shepherd University sweatshirt, it was a little after one in the morning. I’d returned from the bar and eaten half a carton of ice cream. Now I clutched the gray chevron pillow to my chest as the countdown began on TV and the camera zoomed in on Drew Barrymore. Her eyes were big, reflecting all the hope and anticipation every girl has ever felt when it came down to the moment you’d find out if your one true love felt the same way.
God, this—this—was one of my all-time favorite scenes in all the movies in the whole wide world. The moments leading up to when Sam appears at the baseball field, proving that he cared for Josie despite her betrayal.
Man, I was such a goober.
But I had no regrets. None at all.
One of my girlfriends from college, Cora, absolutely hated Drew Barrymore. It was the most bizarre thing ever, but her rage had never been able to dampen my love for this movie.
Granted, there was very little romantic about a twenty-something going back to high school and pretending to be a teenager while falling in love with her über hot and sensitive English teacher. That movie would so never be made nowadays, but there was just something about that first kiss between them that caused my heart to turn to goo.
I sat up, squeezing the pillow as the clock ran out of time and poor Josie looked heartbroken. Cameras panned on the audience, capturing their expressions of sympathy, and then a low murmur rose, turning into cheers. Everyone turned and there he was. Sam. A.k.a. Michael why-won’t-you-be-my-baby-daddy Vartan. He hurried down the bleachers, and I could feel a girly squeal building in its intensity as my hold tightened on the pillow—
“Ouch!” Dropping the pillow, I folded my arm over my breasts and pushed against the sudden ache in them. They’d also been tender this morning. “Owie.”
I had started to mentally calculate when my period was due when there was a knock at the door, jarring me. “What in the world?”
A sliver of unease brewed. It was damn near one-thirty in the morning and someone was at my door? Hell. The time didn’t really matter because hardly anyone knew me well enough to know where I lived.
Snatching the remote off the arm of the couch, I paused the movie right when Sam hit the field. The knock came again just as I stood. I tugged down on my sweater and crept toward the door, visions of serial killers dancing in my head. Stretching up, I peeked through the peephole.
“What the hell,” I muttered.