Mad About You by Pamela Ann

Author:Pamela Ann [Ann , Pamela]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-01-17T16:00:00+00:00

The next day, Anne came in to greet me before announcing that breakfast was going to be served in half an hour. Sleepy and still partially hallucinating, thinking I was still back in my bed in Los Angeles, I stared back at her with my squinting eyes, disheveled hair, and a look that screamed what the fuck? After all, where I came from, no one cooked anyone breakfast. If you found yourself hungry, you made toast or popped a frozen waffle in the toaster, whatever was convenient. To wake up to such an untraditional thing, I was instantly reminded of where I was and what I had done last night.

The horror of my mistake last night made me contemplate getting out of bed and facing the man who had made me feel less confident of myself. It was daunting to think of conversing with him, let alone being in the same room and sharing the same table as we talked about menial things that I couldn’t care less about. However, this was part of being human and living in a civilized world—most especially on this part of the map—where class and decorum were high on everyone’s list.

It wasn’t as if I didn’t have class—I believed I did, though I hadn’t exercised much of it last night—or the fact that my display of decorum was nil. It was just that I felt as if I had gone in over my head, and I wasn’t sure how to act around these affluent people. Never again would I dare wear a denim skirt when I had to be surrounded by rich kids. I wouldn’t put myself through that kind of ordeal. It was just too much for anyone to handle.

I was better than this. I kept telling myself that no one should ever have the right to make me doubt myself. However, it was hard to convince myself when my ego and pride had taken a beating from Cruz’s standoffish attitude last night. The need to curl up and sleep through the day, using jetlag as my excuse, was truly tempting, but my parents had taught me better than that. At a young age, manners had been ingrained in my head. Therefore, instead of opting to save myself from more hurt and insanity, I reluctantly rolled off the bed, slowly dragging my feet to the bathroom to get ready to face the music.

Just a little bit over half an hour later, I left my bedroom to head downstairs. I was dressed in an all black outfit, leggings and cami that matched my comfortable flats. My hair was knotted into a messy bun that crowned my head. And as for war paint, I didn’t use much: a smear of concealer, a coat of mascara, and some blinding, bright red lipstick to mask my battered confidence.

Red on my lips meant business. It stated I was not to be fucked with, because I would chew anyone who crossed me. The fallacy had worked wonders for me over the years, and I had never needed this kind of armor more than today.

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