Page 32 of Signed, I'm Yours!
Because according to Mr. Happy himself, he’s straight, but then he literally carried me through the dirt so I didn’t get mud on my Jimmy Choos, so what am I supposed to think?
That he’s a gentleman? He is, I guess.
That he’s hot? He’s that too.
That he’s interested in me? Pfft. As if.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my fair share of “straight boys” parade through my bedroom—one at a time, of course. And on different days. I’m not a slut.
The thing is…even if he does like me, I don’t like him. No, I don’t. Even if he’s Prince Charming incarnate, he’s still a creep who works for SPAM, so…
Besides, he’s infuriating. With his cheery voice that edges pretty close to sing-songy and his never-ending smiles. Ew. Gross. Gag.
“I still don’t understand what’s wrong with it,” he says, and I can barely hold back from choking him.
“It wasn’t your job to do,” I reply.
“But he got the flat tire helping us. The least I could do was help him.”
“That’s why people have insurance, you know. And he wasn’t helping us. We were paying him to take us from Point A to Point B.”
“Exactly. I.e., helping us.”
“Not.”
“Besides, we weren’t really paying him, were we? You just did your little signature trick at the end, and the poor guy will be short when he finishes his shift tonight.”
I cackle. No, really. Cackle.
“It was the least I could do after you delayed us trying to be a mechanic. Weren’t you in a rush?”
He nods. “I’m sure she’ll understand.”
“She?”
Oh dear Lord, please don’t tell me he’s taking me home to his girlfriend. Or at least, please tell me this signature will soon stop affecting both of us so I can get out of here. I’m tired. Drained. Lying really takes it out of me, especially when I have to maintain my cover for so long. I mean, lying is hard in and of itself, but lying well…well, that’s a skill. A skill I’ve had to master over the years.
“Yeah, Shuga,” he answers, and I stop in my tracks to stare at him.
“Sugar? What the hell? Are you dating a stripper?”
He chuckles, and I have half a mind to slap some sense into him when a gang of people appear around the corner.
“Jack-Jack? Is that you?” a big Black guy with short curly blond hair says, and Jack turns around.
“Zeke!” he says.
Fuck.
Great.
More people to deal with. I just want to rest and plan my next step. Is that too much to ask?
“What are you doing here, guys?” Jack asks the group gathering in front of us.
“It’s movie night, silly. Did you forget?” asks an Asian girl with gorgeous long hair in a floral dress that would be to die for if it was designer.
“You better have bought popcorn, dude. You know how grumpy Robin gets if there’s no popcorn,” Zeke adds.
