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Hey, heaven? Dean Di Laurentis here. Thanks for letting me visit.
If he’d been home, I probably wouldn’t have ended up in bed with Dean. Or maybe instead, I would’ve ended up in bed with Tucker, who happens to be the hottest ginger I’ve ever met.
“Are you seriously dissecting Twilight right now?” God, I am. This is what Allie has reduced me to. A sad, pathetic loser who goes to a bar and forces his friend to participate in a Twilight book club.
“Are you sure you shouldn’t go home and braid her hair or something?” I ask Hannah. “That’s what chicks do for moral support, right?” “Yes, Dean. That’s exactly what we do. Hair braiding, followed by naked pillow fights and then kissing practice.” “Can I come?” Logan and I blurt out in unison.
“Okay. You ready for some real talk?” She nods shakily. “Sean is going to keep texting you. He’s going to keep emailing and calling and doing everything in his power to win you back. You want to know why? Because you’re smart and funny and smoking hot, and he knows he’s a total idiot for letting you go.”
Why is Dean crashing my fantasy?
She points to the Gretzky paperweight we use to hold down the mail on the hall table so it doesn’t fly away whenever someone opens the front door. Now it’s on the hardwood floor next to a massive puddle of tomato soup. I’m surprised the cops didn’t put little evidence flags around it.
You’re lucky I love you, babe. If any other girl had done this to me—” “You love me?” I blurt out.
I don’t really get it, but sure.
Anger floods my stomach, bubbling and simmering and reaching a boil when I enter the living room. It’s full of monsters—man monsters,
“I don’t want you to worry” is how he starts, and oh my God, who says that? Now I’m worried!