Page 88 of Pretty Little Threats

Probably not.Huffing, I ignore him and stew in my frustration, pushing food around my plate. Dare only lets the silence last for so long.

“I’ve been invited to a holiday party. Will you come with me?”

“You’re not going to talk shit about what happened?”

“Do you want me to?” he asks.

Sighing, I shake my head. “Sometimes I don’t understand you. You brought me here because you wanted me toknow. Do you really expect me to think that’s the end of whatever game you’re playing now?”

Dare lifts a shoulder. “Believe what you want, but you haven’t answered my question.”

It’s the middle of November. So much time has passed already. Two-and-a-half months are all I have left before Dad disinherits me. I’ve been working hard to find something, but the truth is, I’m not so sure there’s anything to find.

Dad is keeping secrets. Maybe this stuff with Dare is another one. Anxiety rolls over me, and I struggle to keep my fluttering heart from bursting out of my chest as I breathe through clenched teeth. I don’t know what to feel. I’m not sure if I’m mad or sad or offended or...thoroughly confused.

Dare clears his throat. “The party. Will you come with me?”

Sighing, I pick up my glass and take a sip, but the water does nothing to wash away the ash of lies on my tongue. “Do I have a choice?”

“Yes.”

My dad’s attention lands on me like a heavy weight. I fight the urge to glance over, to check to see how mad he is, to evaluate and try to get inside his head. Dare observes my struggle with an impassive face.

A holiday party isn’t treason.

With our marriage, people will expect us to be together. The last thing either of us needs is an exposé in some magazine going on about trouble in paradise. And maybe, just maybe, a little part of me wants to really piss my dad off.

“When is it?”

“Saturday. Tomorrow night.”

“Okay,” I agree. “I’ll go shopping.”

“I bought you a dress, since it’s last minute.”

I squint. “You didn’t even know I’d say yes.”

Dare smirks. “I took a chance.”

“I’m not going to let you tell me what to wear.”

He chuckles and sets his glass down, looking me straight in the eye. “I don’t really care what you wear, Rose, because at the end of the night, I’m going to take it off.”

“Like hell.”

“The lady doth protest too much.”

“Don’t quote Shakespeare to me.”

“Oh, good. We’re back to you telling me what to do.”

I take a breath. “You’re so annoying.”

Dare simply grins. My lips twitch, but the awareness of my dad watching keeps them pursed.

He shakes his head. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” I snap.

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