Page 9 of The Sebastian Guarantee
“I’ll do you a favor and tell you something you need to know,” he said with a smug air. “I know most of the guys you’ve dated. They only hung out with you because they thought you’d introduce them to—”
“My uncle Rowen and my aunt Penny,” she supplied, confirming her suspicion.
He shrugged. “Yeah.”
A coppery taste invaded her mouth. She swallowed the bitter humiliation and schooled her features. It was time to throw some sass his way. “What do guys want in a woman, Jeremy? You seem to be an expert, and I’m dying to know.”
“Honestly?” he tossed back, surprise coating the word.
And then it hit. Maybe she needed this information. She’d never had a long-term relationship. Perhaps there was something wrong with her in the girlfriend department.
She willed her voice not to shake. “Yes, honestly. Explain it to me.”
He traced his index finger around the rim of his glass. “Guys want someone who’s sexy and alluring. They want to look at the woman on their arm and say, ‘Damn, I’m a lucky guy.’”
A part of her couldn’t deny that she wanted someone to feel that way about her.
“Let me ask you this,” Jeremy continued. “Do you even own a pair of high heels?”
She shrugged. “There’s got to be a pair somewhere in my closet.”
“When was the last time you wore them or put on lingerie?” he shot back like this was a deranged dating game show.
She ripped a sliver of tinfoil from the hot dog wrapper and twisted it. “I like fuzzy socks.”
Jeremy barked a condescending laugh. “News flash: those aren’t sexy.”
She dropped the foil. “I think I get it. What you’re saying is that guys want—”
“The opposite of you,” he finished, cutting her off like the butthole he was.
She leaned forward, ready to pounce, when the treat beneath her beret slid past her forehead and plopped onto the table with a dramatic thud. This foil-wrapped deliciousness was supposed to have solidified her connection with her perfect match. She adjusted her beret, then cradled the wrapped Hank dog in her hands as one salient fact became crystal clear. Jeremy Drewler was not worthy of this hot dog. How the hell could she have thought he was her match?
Jeremy reared back in his seat. “That’s disgusting! Why do you have a hot dog under your hat?” A smirk returned to his lips. “Wait, let me guess. Is it a snack for later when you’re alone in your apartment, staring at your phone, hoping I’ll send you a one a.m. booty call text?”
This jackass had gone too far. Little did he know he’d never gotten her off. Nope, she always had to go into the bathroom and finish up with her trusty Wham Bam battery-operated boyfriend.
She clenched her jaw and glanced at her cell. Oscar waved his hands wildly. The sound was muted, but she could tell the guy was yelling for her to stop.
Moment of truth—her friend was correct to be worried. But there was no turning back now.
It was time to throw down—frankfurter style.
She stood, slapped a deceivingly demure smile on her lips, and batted her eyelashes. “You’re partially correct, Jeremy. It is a hot dog—but not just any hot dog.” She wrapped her fingers around the foil-clad frank, raised her arm, and prepared to launch a wiener at an even bigger wiener.
Jeremy sprang from his chair and shrieked like a preteen girl at her first boy band concert.
Vibrating with fury, she pulled her elbow back another inch as the light from the setting sun glinted off the foil. She flicked her gaze from Jeremy and observed the wrapped masterpiece. She couldn’t defile a hot dog. This misogynistic prick wasn’t worth it. She set the wrapped delicacy on the table and gently stroked the warm wrapper.
“Good luck ever getting a guy, you crazy hot-dog-obsessed girl nerd,” Jeremy mumbled.
Now she really couldn’t let him leave unscathed. She surveyed the table and spied a metal rack with plastic bottles of fancy-pants gourmet condiments.Jackpot!Just because she couldn’t pelt him with a food truck hot dog masterpiece didn’t mean she couldn’t retaliate. Thinking fast, she plucked a compact container of Dijon mustard from its resting place. Like an expert connoisseur of hot dog condiments, she assessed its weight. The bottle was nearly full.
“Excellent,” she whispered, then slapped an evil computer nerd genius smirk to her lips.
“What are you doing with that mustard?” Jeremy squeaked.
She flipped the cap like she was disengaging the safety and pointed the loaded condiment at the King of the Tech Douchebags.
