Drew shakes his head slowly. His hand is still on my arm, so I pull away. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Have you checked Hollywood Gossip today?”
He snort-laughs. “I never check Hollywood Gossip for the same reason I don’t repeatedly hit my head against a brick wall.”
“Well then,” I say, vindicated, “I guess you missed the article about how you and Tarah are hooking up.”
His mouth drops open.
“And you thought I wouldn’t notice,” I continue. “You thought, ‘Oh, this little rube from Ohio won’t even know that I’m just flirting with her for fun.’”
“Annie.” Drew grabs both my arms now and leans down so he’s right in front of my face. “That’s not true. That’s . . . that’s all made up.”
“I broke up with Carter for you, you turd!” I whisper-shout, not wanting everyone nearby to hear us but also kind of wanting everyone nearby to hear us, so they’ll all know exactly what type of person Drew is.
“You—what? You broke up with Sexy Gaffer?” Drew’s mouth drops open and I hate to admit, even an expression of dopey surprise looks good on him.
“Like you even care, you asshole,” I hiss, and oh, this is satisfying. Really letting it rip, letting out all my frustration, using a few choice but still tame curse words because the movie of my life is destined to be PG-13, I guess.
“I care, Annie.” Drew leans toward me, his voice low.
I roll my eyes and step back, willing myself not to be moved by the way Drew sounds exactly like a rom-com male lead apologizing and trying to win back the heroine’s heart. He’s not Mr. Darcy over here, I remind myself. He’s the before. The Bill Pullman, but a jerk. The montage.
“You have to know most of the stuff on those sites is fake. That’s why Jennifer Aniston is perpetually pregnant with twins. Tarah and I are friends and maybe someone saw us talking and—”
“Oh, no thank you,” I say, taking a step back. “I’m so not here for whatever excuses you’re going to give me. With your big speech in the Book Loft about Frasier or whatever and trying to help my uncle with his table and pretending to be all nice. I don’t trust you, Drew Danforth, and you’re just part of a montage.”
He blinks. “Why do I get the distinct feeling that I should be insulted by that?”
“Because you should.” I turn away and start walking. “Goodbye, Drew.”
* * *
• • •
The thing about telling someone off in real life versus in a movie is that I didn’t really have any great lines. If I were to script this, I would’ve added something a lot more poetic and dramatic, and I definitely would’ve explained the whole montage thing to him first so that it would’ve been properly insulting in the moment.
I text Chloe that I won’t be at Nick’s tonight. What I want to do is curl up in bed and watch whatever rom-com I can Netflix on my laptop . . . but, seeing as internet content never sleeps, I’ll have to settle for curling up in bed and writing SEO-optimized articles.
The creak of the front door and the rumbles of male voices alert me that the D&D guys are here. I smell Uncle Don’s famous spinach-artichoke dip, and my stomach growls in response. Still, I’m in no hurry to go downstairs. The guys were so smitten with Drew (well, not so much Dungeon Master Rick) last time, and I don’t want to deal with all their questions about him. When your potential flirtation with a celebrity fizzles out, the last thing you want to do is talk about it with a group of middle-aged gamers.
Still . . . that spinach-artichoke dip is so good, and I know for a fact that Uncle Don made his special paprika chips out of baked pitas. I roll my eyes and squeeze myself out of my blanket cocoon. A quick glance in the mirror reveals that I look objectively awful. I’m wearing yoga pants (sidenote: I have literally never done yoga) with a hole on the thigh and a T-shirt that reads PIZZA SLUT. Chloe bought us matching ones as a joke because we order a lot of pizza for our movie nights, but it’s one of the most comfortable shirts I own so I tend to sleep in it.
Whatever. It’s not like the guys will even notice what I’m wearing, and maybe if I creep downstairs quietly I can slip into the kitchen unnoticed.
I tiptoe down the stairs, which, since this house is over a hundred years old, creak pretty much all the time. Still, the guys are deep in a D&D discussion, so they don’t hear me. As I step into the kitchen, I hear the sound of the dice and Dungeon Master Rick saying something, then a comment from Uncle Don, and Paul and Earl laugh and—
Wait a second. Is there a fifth voice? They would never let someone else join in on D&D. Unless . . .
I push the swinging door between the kitchen and dining room open just a little. Dungeon Master Rick scowls as Don leans over and explains something to . . .
Drew Danforth.
“What the hell?” I whisper before I can stop myself, and all five heads swivel toward me. I step back and let the door swing closed.
I run toward the fridge, open the door, and stand there as casually as possible, like, “Oh, me? Yeah, I came downstairs to get a snack. I definitely wasn’t spying on you from behind a door like we’re in a sitcom or anything.”
The door swings open and I hear a quick snatch of conversation from the dining room, a snippet of Dungeon Master Rick complaining about too many breaks in the game, but I barely notice because Drew Danforth is in front of me. Here. In my kitchen.
I stand up straight and shut the fridge. “What are you doing here?” I ask with as much dignity as I can muster.
Drew gestures toward the dining room. “Well, the guys invited me over to game with them, and I was kind of curious, so . . .”
I deflate a little. I mean, it’s not like I thought Drew Danforth came here for me—not that I even want him to!—but there’s something slightly pathetic about taking second place after D&D.
I nod. “Right.”
“But . . . okay, I’ll be honest.” Drew runs his hands through that outrageously fluffy hair, and it falls back into place as soon as his hands leave it. I can’t help myself from imagining the softness of that hair between my fingers, and . . .
I shake my head.
“I didn’t just come here to learn about tabletop gaming,” Drew says, looking down at the island.
I try to say “Oh, yeah?” but it comes out as a strangled groan.
“I came here because I wanted to explain to you, and you wouldn’t listen to me today,” he says, meeting my eyes and taking a step toward me.
I take a step back, reminded of my earlier anger. “You don’t have to explain anything. I get it, okay?”
He shakes his head. Another small step forward. “I don’t think you do.”
I step back again. “It was nothing. You’re a grown man; you’re allowed to flirt with or do whatever with whoever you want. And I’m a grown woman. I can handle it. Forget about it . . . it didn’t even mean anything.”
Drew shakes his head again and takes yet another step toward me. Now there’s nowhere else for me to go; I can’t back up any more unless I want to knock over the recycling can, which is full of empty Mountain Dew cans because that’s what the guys drink on D&D nights.