I swear, I think his lips twitch at that — just the tiniest tug at the left side of his mouth — but his expression flattens so fast I decide it must’ve been my imagination.
Boo’s barks have subsided into yips of displeasure, interspersed with the occasional growl. Finding no success from his spot on the ground, the tiny Pomeranian leaps up onto the sofa. I won’t be surprised if he launches himself at Nate — aerial assault seems the next logical step.
“Still don’t know why you need to wear those things.” Nate’s words are tight as his eyes flicker down to the heels scattered on the carpet. “Five inches off the ground, teetering around like the fucking Tower of Pisa.”
Well!
“Because I had a hot date, if you must know!” I taunt, hoping to piss him off…. Until his eyes flash with something seriously dark and I decide that’s probably a bad idea. “But mostly, because I like them!” I hurry on, trying to maintain my bravado. “And I so do not teeter. I’ve been told I could strut the runway with the pros.”
His stare narrows as he glares back at me. The cold fury burning in his eyes is hands-down the most emotion he’s shown around me in the past decade. Maybe ever. “By who? Guys trying to get in your pants?”
Well, actually by Lila in eleventh grade before junior prom, but…
My mouth flattens into a frown. My arms, which I’ve only just noticed are wound around him like a starfish clinging for life, tighten as my hands clench into angry fists at his back. My body has reached peak rage levels.
Unfortunately, my brain is still a mushy, hormonal mess due to the fact that Nate is touching me, so I don’t have time to formulate a snappy retort. I just stare at him, mouth gaping, as he continues insulting me.
“Hate to break it to you, West, but you’re 5’3” — never gonna be a runway model.” He gives me a hard, humorless smile. “Thought you were smart enough to know a guy will say just about anything to get you into bed.”
An outraged sound flies from my lips.
God, he’s a jackass.
God, I barely care.
If he asked, I’d pull this dress up over my head and jump him, right here on my brand new Anthropologie rug.
No! Bad Phoebe. You’ve moved on, remember?
His eyes flash again, as though he can read my thoughts. I swallow roughly.
“Are you trying to be an ass?” I hiss.
“Are you trying to be stupid?” He hisses right back. “You show up looking like that for a date, you’re giving a guy certain expectations. The wrong kind of expectations.”
Oh, no. He did not just say that.
My brain catches up to my body, anger overtaking my every neuron and synapse in one swift instant.
“Who I date is none of your business!” I bite out coldly. “Never has been, never will be.”
His eyes flash again and his jaw tightens as a muscle jumps in his cheek, but he says nothing.
Typical.
If this were any other guy, I’d say he was jealous. But this is Nate we’re talking about. The very idea is ludicrous.
We stare at each other in stony silence, still pressed together, our chests heaving in sync with the strength of our breaths, our hearts pounding in perfect rhythm. Anger sparks in the narrow slice of space between our faces, so hot and visceral, it practically bends the particles like ultra-heated air on asphalt. For a second, I think I see something else in his eyes, but it’s buried so deep it’s easy to dismiss it as nothing but a trick of light.
One more mirage on a desert road.
“Did you come here to talk about shoes, Nate?” My words are breathy — I tell myself from anger, not desire. “Or did Parker con you into checking in on me while he’s off gallivanting through Europe with his parade of bimbos?”