Mr. Masters (Mr. 1)

I smirk and hit send. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

A reply bounces back immediately.

From: Julian

To: Bree

What?

A prompt reply is required.

Julian.

I narrow my eyes. Conceited prick.

I type.

From: Bree

To: Julian

I am not interested in a rematch. Find another candidate.

Yours Sincerely,

Bree.

My phone instantly rings, the name Mr. Masters lighting up the screen.

Shit.

“Hello,” I answer.

“What do you mean you’re not interested?”

“It means what it means. I’m not interested.”

“You enjoyed yourself the other night. I know you did.”

“Not as much as you, it seems.”

He stays silent, and I smirk as I imagine his angry face.

“Don’t pl

ay games with me.” He growls.

“I’m not.”

“Is this about Bernadette?”

“Are you deaf, dumb, or just plain stupid?” I snap. “Of course this is about Bernadette.”

“I broke up with her last night.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s not you.”