Commuting sucks.
Yeah, sure. Trent gave me a ride a few days ago, but since the ice cream, he’s been missing in action.
He didn’t even come with me to volunteer.
I found the address on the counter in my room and a note reminding me of my obligation to him.
Ass.
His place is big, but I still haven’t seen him anywhere.
Does he even sleep here?
Does Trent have a girlfriend?
The idea of it makes my stomach hurt.
I shouldn’t care.
I don’t want to like him. Not with the way he is vindictive, then caring, and then ghosting me the next second.
He can be with anyone he wants. But for some reason, I want to know if he has a girl in his life.
And if he does, is she going to be here tonight to mock me?
I feel ill at the thought.
There is not one part of me that wants to read a book report to the gorgeous model he’s probably dating. It occurs to me that I know nothing of this man. Never had the chance to pry into his life.
I don’t even know if he’s seeing someone.
Ugh.
This is going to be awful.
Well, if she is going to be here, then I’m going to make myself look hot, too.
It’s such a petty, shallow thought. I hate myself for thinking it. I hate myself for acting on it, too.
I walk over to my closet, throw off the sweats I have on, and put on a tight-fitted skirt and blouse.
Then I fluff my hair with a brush and put on a light dusting of makeup. Squaring my shoulders, I head out into the hallway.
There is a gathering in the living room.
Most of the faces I know.
And I’m happy to see there is no sexy woman.
God, what is wrong with me?
I shouldn’t be happy.
I shouldn’t care.
Get your hormones in check, girl.
The man is a major asshole.
Just because he is hot and makes you feel tingly inside when his blue eyes find you doesn’t mean you have to act like a complete idiot.
“Payton,” he drawls, lifting a glass to his lips.
It’s full of mahogany liquid. He’s drinking, and I’m his entertainment. Got it.
He sets his glass down, gesturing to a space set aside for me. There’s a little box there. The type kids stand on to reach the sink to brush their teeth. And he is exactly the petty type of asshole to send his staff out to buy something like this for tonight.
Actually, I’m surprised he didn’t ask me to do it.
He continues, “Tell us something you have learned this month and how it is relevant to this household. Impart some learned wisdom . . .”
Shit.
His question is open-ended, and it means I need to use my own interpretation to reference him and the other unfamiliar people around. So . . . mainly me.
This isn’t good.
I studied Jung.
But having to pull from my brain something relevant to Trent . . .
Yeah, I am not prepared for that. I’m prepared to talk about history.
About the theories he’s most famous for.
Which is what I read and made flash cards for.
But this . . .
I don’t know Trent.
How am I possibly supposed to do this?
That’s when he smiles.
He knows he set me up to fail.
There was no part of him that wanted me to succeed. He knew I would memorize facts. Facts that anyone could recite.
The bastard had this planned.
To make me look like an ass in front of everyone I have to see day in and out.
A Barbie struts into the room
And my fear is brought to life.
A tall, gorgeous blond woman walks up to Trent and smiles at him. “Am I late?”
“No. Just in time. Payton is going to give us some impactful words of wisdom on Carl Jung, and then we can have a cocktail before the party tonight.”
She is still smiling at him.
I feel sick.
He hasn’t taken his eyes off me.
Not for a minute.
She’s here exactly for the reason I think she is.
To throw me for a loop.
He knows it’s not bad enough to have me make a fool of myself in front of his staff.
He brought in a stranger to seal the deal.
Why does she have to be perfect?
She’s as beautiful as he is, and not an imposter like me.
No.
I won’t do this.
This is his plan, and I won’t let it work.
He won’t get a rise out of me.
I smile back.
Smirk is more like it.
One that says “well-played asshole, but you haven’t seen how I throw down.”
Taking a few steps forward, I kick aside his makeshift stage and take my place in the center of the room. My back straightens to my full height, and I shrug off my blazer, allowing only my black lace camisole to stay on.
I toss my blazer toward the couch.
It lands right on the intended target’s lap.
Trent’s.
He is staring at me.
More like shooting daggers with his eyes.