Page 58 of Playing the Field

I should leave it at that, but before I can stop myself, I type out another message.

Must be riveting if you didn’t check in on me all night.

I don’t expect a reaction. But I get one.

The dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.

Then—

Didn’t realize I needed to check in.

I narrow my eyes at the screen.

You don’t.

Forget I said anything.

Another pause. This one longer.

Then—

No. You said it. So what’s the problem, Anastasia?

My grip tightens on my phone, and I feel Vee watching me from the side. “Okay, what’s with the face? You look like you’re either about to puke or commit murder.”

I huff out a breath, tossing my phone onto the bar. “Graham is being… Graham.”

Vee smirks. “You did text him first.”

“I know.” I pick up my drink and take a longer sip. “And now I wish I hadn’t.”

Her smirk widens. “Liar.”

I groan, but before I can argue, my phone buzzes again.

Where are you?

Oh, now he asks.

I exhale sharply and type back.

Out.

With who?

My pulse ticks up, frustration curling in my chest.

Does it matter?

I watch the screen, waiting. Waiting for him to say something, to do something.

Finally, his response comes through.

If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be asking.

Something about those words—the casual possessiveness, the assumption that I owe him an answer—sets me off.

I press my lips together, my fingers flying over the keyboard before I can think better of it.