Page 89 of Revenge Puck

“What did he say?”

“He wants to cook me dinner—and he wants to eat my cookie for dessert.”

Her brows rise.

“He said not to bring anything because he has everything I need.”

Blaire lets out a breath. “Girl.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“He wants to screw you so bad.”

“It would appear that way.” I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror; at my braid and my sweatshirt and my lace collar. “Maybe schoolteachers are his kink,” I mutter. “I look like a librarian.”

“You’re right.” Blaire squints at me. “That look is literally every man’s fantasy.”

I laugh. “Stop.”

“What? You look cute.”

“I don’t want to look cute!”

She stares at me. “I’m sorry but…you are? What do you want me to say? A new hairstyle isn’t going to change the way you look, babe—you have that ethereal vibe and that’s never going to change.”

I pout, bottom lip jutting out defensively. “Your pep talk is not helpful.”

My best friend regards me, tilting her head. “You don’t need to change anything about yourself. You need to stop acting like he’s the only one who knows what’s happening. He’s the one chasing you—not the other way around.”

That’s true. I am chasing him as much as he’s chasing me.

“He wants to eat me for dessert,” I admit with a sly smile.

“Of course he does.” Blaire rolls her eyes. “Hello, have you seen you?”

“He thinks he’s in control,” I mutter.

Blaire raises a brow. “Do you think he is?”

I press my lips together, fighting a smile. “No.”

“He’s chasing you,” she says out loud what I was only thinking. “He called. He wants to cook and impress you.You’redeciding whether to show up.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I was hoping I could show up in a cute shirt and less…” I pull at the sweatshirt. “Material.”

“Fine. Let’s go change you into something that says ‘I know exactly what I’m doing.’”

“I do know what I’m doing,” I protest as she drags me down the hallway.

“Then stop dressing like you’re about to tutor a freshman.”

“This is comfortable!”

“Here. Take the crewneck off and wear the button-down on its own.” She begins tugging at my hem to pull the top up and over my head. “Undo some of these.” She then goes to work undoing the end of my braid and unraveling it, running her fingers through it when she’s finished. “There. You’re a siren. He won’t be able to stop staring.”

I turn toward the mirror she has hanging near the kitchen entry way and give myself a once over.

Passes inspection.