“Alright, it’s a date,” Emmett says, and I jerk my head in his direction just in time to see the smug, self-satisfied grin on his face. “Come on, Casey, it’s time to go. We’ll see you later, Bree.”
Oh, that dirty, rotten, no-good, cocky bastard.
“It’s not a date,” I correct, but he only chuckles at me.
“Bye Bree,” Casey smiles and waves.
I manage to wave back without giving Emmett the middle finger. I even manage
to not to call him a jerk out load.
But I stew over his underhanded move for so long, I almost miss a crucial detail before he and Casey walk out the door.
I turn and call out, “Hey,” just as Emmett grabs the handle. “Don’t you need my address to pick me up?”
“Nope,” Emmett answers and lifts up his phone. Waving the phone at me, his grin grows wider. “I’ve got it right here.”
Confused, I don’t get what he means at first, and before I can get some clarification, he walks out the door.
What the hell? How does he have my address in his—
He didn’t.
Remembering he had my phone yesterday, I quickly unlock the screen and check my contacts.
After scrolling around a bit, I find him. The cocky bastard is right there in my list.
And, as if that’s not bad enough, he had the gall to add himself as: My Future Husband.
Chapter Eleven
Bree
Sometimes in life there are decisions that you know right away are bad decisions. Decisions that will fuck your life up and have long lasting consequences.
Going out with Emmett tonight definitely feels like one of those fuck-my-life-up bad decisions.
Staring at the mess of clothes on my bedroom floor, I wonder what the hell I’m doing.
Am I a sucker for punishment?
With all the other shit going on, why am I doing this to myself?
Casey’s pleading face flashes in front of my eyes as a reminder.
Oh yeah, for Casey…
But is it really only for him? Or deep down, do I want this to be more?
Do I want this to be the start of… something?
Turning to the face the mirror hanging on the back of my door, I tug at the skirt of the little blue sundress I have on.
Ugh, it’s too cute, and makes it look like I’m treating this like a date. And it’s totally not a date…
Ripping the dress off and tossing it to the side, I stomp over to my closet and push my hangers around. I have a wardrobe that could put most girls my age to shame. Gucci, Prada, Chanel, Burberry… From my tops to my bottoms, it’s designer everything. But it’s all stuff bought with my father’s money, and the thought of wearing any of it out tonight doesn’t feel right.
It doesn’t feel like me.