I clear my throat to break the sudden silence. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make things weird. Things with my dad have always been—”
“We should throw you a party,” Gemma announces, eyes lighting up. “It’ll be great! We’ll have it at Chase’s penthouse, invite anyone you want. We could even do a theme! Golf Pros and Tennis Hoes – women being the pros, of course.”
“Guys in Ties and Girls in Pearls,” Shelby suggests.
“I always loved the Mathletes and Athletes combo in college,” Lila adds, eyes sparkling.
“Oh! That’s a good one.” Gemma’s nodding. “The penthouse can fit at least sixty people, maybe more. We could get a DJ and some lighting—”
“NO!” I exclaim, starting to panic. They all look at me, startled by my volume. “Sorry.” I clear my throat and look at Gemma with guilty eyes. “It’s really sweet of you to offer, Gem, but I’m really not into the whole birthday thing. I find them pretty depressing, to be honest.”
“Oh,” her expression falls.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling like the ultimate party-pooper. “I’m just not a big party kind of girl. I’ve always been better with small groups or one-on-one interaction.”
“Perfect! I’ll send you a stripper-gram as a present,” Shelby offers, grinning. “That definitely counts as one-on-one interaction, right?”
I snort. “A stripper and a virgin. Sounds like a porno waiting to happen.”
“Oh, come on.” Shelby laughs. “It’ll cheer you up.”
I roll my eyes and push away my empty plate. “Do me a favor and send it to Nate instead. Maybe it’ll somehow dislodge the giant stick he’s got up his ass.”
“He’ll come around,” Gemma says gently, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “You’ll see.”
I sigh and hold my tongue.
I don’t have the heart to tell her she’s wrong. Me and Nate? Never gonna happen. Not even if Shelby has me hospitalized with a fake murder plot.
Chapter Twelve
According to chemists, alcohol
actuallyisa solution.
Phoebe West, defending her decision to stay in
and drink wine on Valentine’s Day.
After saying goodbye to the girls, I catch a cab home fromCrumbleand hop in the shower. My morning flew by in a blur of stretching, cupcakes, and gossip — it’s early afternoon already and I’ve accomplished none of the things on my to-do list.
Great.
I take a quick shower and head into the small office off the kitchen with my damp hair wrapped in a towel and my body stuffed into my favorite yoga pants — the ones I never wear outside the house because they have a hole in the right ass cheek, but can’t quite convince myself to throw away.
As soon as my laptop powers on, I scroll through my inbox, deleting the zillion spam emails that have accumulated in the two days since I last logged in.
UNBEATABLE MALE ENHANCEMENT! GAIN FIVE INCHES!
Thanks, I’m all set.
I’ll be the first to admit, working as a graphic designer is pretty sweet. I make my own hours, set my own pace when it comes to projects, and essentially get to be my own boss most of the time. There’s never anyone breathing down my neck to make sure I’ve clocked in by eight every morning. I go to the WestTech officesmaybeonce a week.
There’s a downside to all that freedom, though.
With no one watching to keep me on track every hour on the hour, I have a tendency to procrastinate. On rare occasions, I’ve even been known to forego work altogether in favor of an all-dayHouse of Cardsmarathon.
I never said I was perfect. In fact, I’ve adamantly denied such accusations.