“I’m not hitting on you.” “Sure.” The word trickles from his mouth, easy and final. “Seriously,” I mutter, cheeks growing hot. “I’d rather shit in my hands and clap.” The typing stops. Slowly, he lifts his head and meets my gaze in the mirror. Deep-green and intense. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and it feels like self-preservation to look away. But as always, stubbornness has me in a choke hold, and I grip the edge of the bar to force myself to maintain eye contact. “I’m sorry?” “Apology accepted,” I bite back.
Yes girl, give him a taste of his own medicine 💁🏼♀️
