Page 16 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions

I couldn’t wait to see him again.

Couldn’t wait to surprise him the way he’d surprised me.

It was going to be amusing to watch those expressive brows twist. Maybe he’d scowl again? God, that scowl was adorable. He had this little dimple in his chin when he frowned that I found disarmingly captivating. It was the grumpiest dimple I’d ever seen.

Agrimple, if you will.

So fucking cute.

Seriously.

When I’d finally annoyed him into abandoning his book, George had evaded as many of my questions as he could. The flight duration was nearly two hours, and I’d learned very fucking little about him, despite how doggedlyI’d worked for answers. When I’d asked him if he’d been raised in Ohio, he’d flicked an eyebrow and said, “Obviously.”

It hadn’t been obvious at all.

At least, not if you looked at how tightly wound his ass was in his dark suit and silver cufflinks. He had New York practically tattooed on his face. It was hard to believe he was from the same small rural town that Roddy was from. Raised surrounded by cornfields beneath the same wide blue sky I’d always called home.

There was nothing “small town” about George.

He was the opposite of friendly.

Not that I’d necessarily call the rest of the clan “friendly”, per se, but George hadbite.

A fact I begrudgingly respected at the same time I found fascinating. Maybe that was why he’d moved so far away? Why he’d become the black sheep of the family despite being Mrs. Milton’s golden boy. Her pride and joy. The only Milton to break the mold.

He was as tightly wound as a yo-yo, and I couldn’t wait to watch him spin. I felt no remorse. Why would I when I knew this would lead nowhere fast? This was a bit of flirty fun. Nothing more.

I mean…sure, I hadn’t planned on flirting at all—I certainly hadn’t with June’s other matchmaking efforts. But…a little wouldn’t hurt.

I didn’t date.

I never would.

I knew better than anyone that I was unpalatable. Too much. There was no point pretending otherwise. And I wasn’t going to. If I found George fascinating, that was private information.

It didn’t mean anything.

Nothing at all.

Especially when he made it so goddamn clear how incredibly uninterested he was in me. I wasn’t used to being disliked.

“Favorite thing to do in your spare time?” I tried, ignoring the heat that pooled between my legs when he glared at me.

“I’m not playing twenty questions with you.”

“Harsh,” I laughed, unrepentant. I maybe shouldn’t have pushed, but I couldn’t help myself. Not when he was so fucking cute—especially when he was annoyed. He didn’t want to be vulnerable when it wasn’t on his own terms. This wasn’t about privacy—at least, I didn’t think so. It was about control. I could respect that.

“Please?” I said, curious to see what he’d do next. There were limits to how far I’d go. I didn’t want to actually make him uncomfortable, and though I continued to prod, I was careful not to cross the line.

George didn’t reply.

I’d stumped him.

I could see the flicker of confusion in his eyes as he scrambled to figure out what to say.

George had the kind of eyes poetry was written about. There was a sadness in them I recognized far too intimately. My own neediness projected onto him—given how brutally and efficiently George shut me down.

A vivid, bottomless blue, as dark as mine were light. It was difficult to look away once caught inside their depths. Like the Mariana Trench, his irises were so blue they were nearly black. Layers on layers, rippled waves of emotion buried on top of one another so far down they muddied. And though the color was gorgeous, best of all was their shape. Angled upward at the ends, the wrinkles at the corners of George’s eyes betrayed how often he scoffed or squinted. Years of emotion bundled in every permanent crevice. Framed by see-through blond lashes, he was a study in contrast.

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