You know what, I don’t care.
Folding my arms across my chest, I fire back, “Well, I don’t like bubblegum.”
“Then you should tell me your name.”
“I’m never telling you my name.”
“Never is a long time, Bubblegum.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Can’t.” He shakes his head slowly. “You’re a little too pink.”
“What?”
“Pink…” he repeats before trailing off and moving his eyes away from my face, letting them go down my body.
My belly whooshes again as I follow his gaze, looking down at myself.
Which is when I finally figure it out.
What he’s saying and why he called me Bubblegum in the first place.
“You,” he finishes his statement and my eyes spring back to his.
It’s glowing even more, his gaze.
And it makes my belly whoosh harder. Which is not helped by the fact that he’s correct.
As in, Iampink.
Or rather, my dress is.
My brand new dress with a lace overlay — the first thing my parents bought for me in celebration of their new jobs and tonight’s special occasion — that I absolutely adore.
“I’m not pink,” I tell him. “My dress is pink.”
Keeping his eyes on me, he adds, “And your toes. Your sandals.” He jerks his chin up. “Plus that ribbon in your hair. All pink. Like bubblegum.”
Okay, it’s official now.
I don’t think I like him very much.
Whoever he is.
“So I’m wearing all pink. So what? It’s not like I wear it every day. It’s a special occasion today, okay?”
“Yeah, what’s the special occasion?”
I purse my lips. “I’m not going to tell you.”
His eyes flash as he drawls, “You’re starting to break my heart a little bit, Bubblegum.”
At his low words, all the air gets sucked out of my lungs.
Not to mention, at his actions too.
At the fact that he puts a hand on his chest and rubs the spot just above his heart, like I’m really breaking it.