God, this sounds so stupidly pathetic. Even to my own ears. And why did I just admit all of that to him? My face is easily the shade of the dress I’m wearing—and it’s bright motherfucking red. He’s smirking at me again, which only proves my point. I hate feeling like this. Insecure and inadequate. At least it’s better than stupid and clueless. Yeah, that’s what I had going on with Matt and this is not who I am. I’m typically far more self-assured.
“I’ll just grab my drink and return to my friends.”
I pull some cash out of my purse and drop it on the wooden bar. I pause, and he doesn’t stop me. My fingers slip around the smooth, long stem of my glass. I want to get the hell out of here, but before I can slide my drink safely toward me and make my hasty, not so glamorous escape, he covers my hand with his and whispers, “No. Stay.”
* * *