Guy Hater (Fisher Brothers 2)

She bit her lip suggestively, and I found myself feeling territorial. If Frank was going to stalk either of us, it was going to be me.

Wait, what the hell am I even thinking?

“So, will you do it?” she asked.

I shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”

“Just be bold. What do you have to lose?”

“My pride. My confidence. The ability to look at myself in the mirror each morning without cringing.”

“All over a stupid phone number? Now who’s being dramatic?” She finished the last of her drink and slammed the empty glass down.

I sighed, weighing Britney’s words against my heart’s desire. What did I want when it came to Frank?

Everything?

Nothing?

“What are you thinking about? You have that stupid look on your face,” Britney said, interrupting my thoughts, which weren’t forming all that well anyway.

“I’m just trying to figure out what the hell I want when it comes to him,” I admitted a little too honestly.

“You don’t have to have it all figured out right this second.”

“I know that.”

“Are you sure?”

Her tone was a little too judgmental for my taste, and I stiffened. “Yeah, I’m sure. I think I know myself better than anyone else,” I said with attitude.

She slouched back into the couch. “I’m not trying to upset you. I’m just saying that it’s okay if you want to get to know him and see where it goes. Maybe you’ll hate him after talking to him more. He might be stupid. Who knows? But you won’t know unless you try.”

Dammit. I hated that she was right. Because I was pretty sure that she was drunk, and it annoyed me that even inebriated, Britney could make this much sense.

I growled, “Fine. I’ll leave him my damn number. Happy now?”

“Yes!” she shouted, pumping her fist into the air.

I reached for my clutch, opened it, and looked inside. “Just one problem.”

“What’s that, my little Colombian friend?” she said in an accent that I was sure was meant to mimic my own. It was a horrible mix between Al Pacino in the Godfather and a drunk white girl from the Valley.

I shook my head. “No paper. No pen.”

She hopped up from the couch like it was on fire. “I got you!” she said before sprinting off toward the bar.

I refused to turn around and watch her, my body already humming with slight humiliation at what might come out of her mouth while she was unattended.

When one of the annoying guys from earlier saw me sitting alone, he headed toward me. With one shake of my head, I made him stop in mid-step and turn back around. In that moment, I was thankful he and his friends thought I belonged to Frank.

Britney reappeared and plopped back onto the couch, bouncing me a little as she landed.

“Here you go! One pen and some paper,” she said, handing them over as if she was the cleverest person in the entire bar.

“Please tell me you didn’t ask Frank for them,” I pleaded, willing my potential embarrassment to back down.

“Hell no! I asked Ryan.” She giggled, her eyes a little glassy, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the alcohol or the lust. “I’ll take any excuse to talk to that man.”