“What time is it?” I ask groggily.
“Almost eleven. Sorry that took so long.” He doesn’t look sorry, though. He still looks angry. Maybe even angrier than before.
Unease trickles down my spine. “Should I go?”
“Do you want to?” His hostile tone is too much for sleepy me to deal with at the moment.
“I can, yeah. Clearly you don’t want me here.” I realize I’m lying under the covers. And I’m still in his jersey, which is going to be super-awkward in about two seconds, but screw it. I throw the covers off and climb out of his bed, note the shock on his face when he catches sight of me in his jersey and nothing else, but I ignore it.
I need to find my shoes, put my dress back on, grab my purse and get the hell out of here.
“You’re really going to leave?” he asks incredulously.
“I probably should, don’t you think?” I call over my shoulder as I make my way to his closet. My dress is still in a heap on the floor, and my sandals are in there too. I grab the dress, ready to change, but he’s standing in the doorway, watching me. “Um, do you mind?”
“Do I mind what?”
“I want to change.” I hold the dress up.
He leans against the doorjamb, his arms crossed. “Go ahead.”
“Privately?” I wave him away, but he doesn’t budge.
“Why are you wearing my jersey anyway?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused.
I shrug, my cheeks hot. “I wanted to wear something to bed.”
“You should’ve just taken off your dress.”
“I’m not going to lie in your bed half naked while you’re talking to your mom downstairs.”
He drops his arms and takes a step into the closet. “You’ve done it before.”
“When your mom wasn’t here.”
Jordan shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I saw your Snapchat.”
Oh. Crap. “Yeah?” My voice cracks and I clear my throat.
“Cuddle with Tuttle?” He raises a brow.
My entire body flushes hot. I am such an idiot. Seriously. “Uh…”
“And hashtag ‘property of’? Really, Mandy?”
He’s now standing directly in front of me, handsome as ever in that pale blue button down shirt I want to slowly unbutton myself. God, being in his presence leaves me feeling so weak, when I should be mad at him. Mad at the way he acted tonight, how he ignored me. How his parents almost ruined everything for us. He’s still angry, and because I’m a sick, sick pervert, his anger only turns me on. Leaves me weak and flushed and my blood runs hot. I’m restless and needy and there’s a deep, low throbbing between my legs that makes me want to attack him.
Clearly I have issues.
“Please don’t be mad,” I whisper. “I can explain.”
“You think I’m mad?”
“I know you’ve had a bad night,” I start, and he laughs, though there is not one ounce of amusement in the sound. “And my night hasn’t been that great either.”
“Is that my fault?”
I shake my head, not wanting to blame anyone.
Okay, fine. I want to blame Lauren Mancini for that stupid photo she posted, like she has the right to post shit like that about the boy I am currently with. The boy who I’d like to think is really mine.
“I did the Snapchat thing because of Lauren Mancini,” I finally admit, feeling so incredibly lame.
Jordan frowns. “Lauren Mancini? What does she have to do with this?”
“She posted a photo of you and her at the Homecoming dance, dancing in each other’s arms and wearing your stupid crowns,” I mutter, shaking my head. “She’s trying to make it seem like you two are a real couple. She even hashtagged the photo ‘Jordan and Lauren’.”
“And…what?” He almost looks amused. “You fell for her trick? Who am I with right now? Isn’t that the most important thing?”
I ignore his question. “I got—mad.” And jealous. I have no photos of Jordan and me together. None. And in this social media driven world we live in, if there’s no photographic proof, then it didn’t happen.
“I danced with her because I had to. The homecoming king and queen always have to dance together after they’re crowned. It’s tradition. The second the song was done, I was out,” he explains.
“Until you showed up at Yo Town with her.”
“It was a group of us getting frozen yogurt. I just went along with it.” He shrugs. Jordan Tuttle is not one to go “along with it”. So why did he?
“Did you know I was working at Yo Town when you went there?”
He looks the slightest bit contrite. “Maybe.”
“Oh. My. God!” I shove at his chest, wishing I could pull him in closer to me. But I’m still mad at him.
Sort of.
“You were spying on me,” I say when he remains quiet. And he still remains quiet, which makes me uneasy. “Were you trying to make me jealous?”