My eyes narrow further. “I’m a grown woman! I’ll wear whatever goddamn shoes I want!”
“You used to wear flats,” he grunts out, his gaze still locked on mine. “Yeah, they were always covered in glitter and sparkly polka dots and shit, but at least you could run in them if you had to.”
I blink, shocked once again.
He remembers the shoes I wore in middle school?
Entirely too stunned to processthatlittle tidbit of information, I instead search for the deep well of hurt and rage I’ve been harboring for the past decade. If I let it fill me up like acid bubbling from the depths of my soul, maybe it’ll incinerate the butterflies that have begun to swarm in my stomach. Maybe, if I’m burning with anger, I won’t notice how good it feels to be in his arms, my lips inches from his, those dark eyes finally focused on me with every ounce of his attention.
How many times have I dreamed of his hands on the bare skin at my back, of his nose so close it practically bumps mine with each muttered word?
Even after he joined the military and got all scary and damaged and distant, I still wanted him to hold me like this, so I could see the demons in his eyes up close… and so maybe, just maybe, he’d seemein return for once.
I just didn’t think, when it finally happened, we’d be talking about shoes.
“I’m not sixteen anymore!” I snap, trying on my iciest tone, which is kind of hard since I’m feeling so breathless. “And if you hadn’t shown up in the dark like some kind of creepy home invader, I wouldn’t be running around in the first place! I’d be gorging myself on leftover lo mein right now, instead of nearly tripping over my heels, dying young, and not living long enough to read the nextGame of Thronesbook, assuming George ever finishes writing it. I’ve been waitingfour yearsto learn what happens to Jon Snow. You almost took that from me!”
I swear, I think his lips twitch at that — just the tiniest tug at the left side of his mouth — but his expression flattens so fast I decide it must’ve been my imagination.
Boo’s barks have subsided into yips of displeasure, interspersed with the occasional growl. Finding no success from his spot on the ground, the tiny Pomeranian leaps up onto the sofa. I won’t be surprised if he launches himself at Nate — aerial assault seems the next logical step.
“Still don’t know why you need to wear those things.” Nate’s words are tight as his eyes flicker down to the heels scattered on the carpet. “Five inches off the ground, teetering around like the fucking Tower of Pisa.”
Well!
“Because I had a hot date, if you must know!” I taunt, hoping to piss him off…. Until his eyes flash with something seriously dark and I decide that’s probably a bad idea. “But mostly, because I like them!” I hurry on, trying to maintain my bravado. “And I so do notteeter. I’ve been told I could strut the runway with the pros.”
His stare narrows as he glares back at me. The cold fury burning in his eyes is hands-down the most emotion he’s shown around me in the past decade. Maybe ever. “By who? Guys trying to get in your pants?”
Well, actually by Lila in eleventh grade before junior prom, but…
My mouth flattens into a frown. My arms, which I’ve only just noticed are wound around him like a starfish clinging for life, tighten as my hands clench into angry fists at his back. My body has reached peak rage levels.
Unfortunately, my brain is still a mushy, hormonal mess due to the fact that Nate is touching me, so I don’t have time to formulate a snappy retort. I just stare at him, mouth gaping, as he continues insulting me.
“Hate to break it to you, West, but you’re 5’3” — never gonna be a runway model.” He gives me a hard, humorless smile. “Thought you were smart enough to know a guy will say just about anything to get you into bed.”
An outraged sound flies from my lips.
God, he’s a jackass.
God, I barely care.
If he asked, I’d pull this dress up over my head and jump him, right here on my brand new Anthropologie rug.
No! Bad Phoebe. You’ve moved on, remember?
His eyes flash again, as though he can read my thoughts. I swallow roughly.
“Are youtryingto be an ass?” I hiss.
“Are youtryingto be stupid?” He hisses right back. “You show up looking like that for a date, you’re giving a guy certain expectations. The wrong kind of expectations.”
Oh, no. He didnotjust say that.
My brain catches up to my body, anger overtaking my every neuron and synapse in one swift instant.
“Who I date is none of your business!” I bite out coldly. “Never has been, never will be.”