His cheeks hollow in frustration. “Baby doll, I am not watching a movie about—” He squints at the screen “‘a woman’s life-changing journey after being diagnosed with a terminal illness.’ No fucking way.”
“It’s supposed to be really good,” I protest. “It won an Oscar!”
“You know what else won an Oscar? Silence of the Lambs. Jaws. The Exorcist.” He sounds smug. “And they’re all horror movies.”
“We can argue about this all night, but I’m not watching anything with blood or sharks or explosions. Deal with it.”
Dean’s teeth are visibly clenched. Then his jaw relaxes and he releases a heavy breath. “Fine. If I have to suffer through this crap movie, I’m smoking a joint first.”
“Whatever gets you through it, sweetie.”
He walks toward the doorway, grumbling something under his breath.
“Wait,” I call after him. I quickly fish my phone out of my jacket pocket. “Can you take this with you? I might give in to texting temptation if I’m left alone with it.”
He gives me a weird look. “Who you trying not to text?”
“My ex. We broke up last night and he won’t stop messaging me.”
There’s a pause. “You know what? You’re coming with me.”
I barely have time to blink before Dean crosses the room and tugs me off the chair. When my feet connect with the hardwood floor, I lose my balance and stumble right into his massive chest, my nose bumping one defined pec.
I quickly steady myself, armed with a glare. “I was comfy, you ass.”
He ignores me, half-leading, half-dragging me to the kitchen. Since he didn’t even let me grab my jacket, I start shivering the second we step through the back door.
Dean’s bare chest gleams under the patio light. He doesn’t seem bothered by the cold, but his nipples pucker slightly in the chilly night air.
“Ugh. You even have perfect nipples,” I gripe.
His lips twitch. “Do you wanna touch ’em?”
“Ew. Never. I’m just commenting that they’re frickin’ perfect. Like, totally proportioned to your chest.”
He peers down at his pecs and considers for a moment. “Yeah. I am perfect. I need to remind myself of that more often.”
I snort. “Right. Because you’re not already conceited enough.”
“I’m confident,” he corrects.
“Conceited.”
“Confident.” He pops open the small tin box he grabbed from the kitchen, and I scowl when he extracts a neatly rolled joint and a Zippo.
“Why am I out here?” I grumble. “I don’t want to smoke weed.”
“Sure you do.” He lights up and takes a deep drag, then speaks through the escaping cloud of smoke. “You’re acting all jittery and weird. Trust me, you need this.”
“This is peer pressure, you know.”
He holds out the joint, one eyebrow raised. “Come on, baby,” he coaxes in a singsong voice. “Just one toke. All the cool kids are doing it.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Fuck off.”
“Suit yourself.” He exhales again, and the scent of marijuana surrounds me.
I can’t remember the last time I got high. I don’t do it often, but honestly? If any night merits some weed-induced serenity, it’s this one.
“Oh, fine. Give it to me.” I stick out my hand before I can second-guess myself.
Dean is beaming as he passes it over. “That’s my girl. But don’t tell Wellsy. She’ll kick my ass if she thinks I’m corrupting her best friend.”
I wrap my lips around the joint and draw the smoke into my lungs, trying not to laugh at the genuine apprehension on Dean’s face. He’s probably right to be afraid of Hannah. Girl’s got a sharp tongue and she isn’t afraid to use it. That’s why I love her.
We spend the next couple minutes passing the joint back and forth in silence like a couple of hooligans loitering behind a gas station. This is the first time we’ve spent any time alone together, and it feels weird hanging out in the backyard with a shirtless Dean Di Laurentis. If I’m being honest, I’ve never known what to make of the guy. He’s cocky, flirtatious…
Superficial.
I feel like an ass for thinking it, but I can’t deny that’s what comes to mind whenever I see Dean. Hannah told me he’s filthy rich, and it totally shows. Not in the pompous, watch-me-roll-around-in-my-money-vault sense, but in the way he struts around like the world is his oyster. I have a feeling he’s never experienced a second of hardship in his life. Looking at him, you just know this guy gets whatever he wants, whenever he wants it.
Huh. And apparently marijuana makes me both philosophical and judgmental.
“So you got dumped?” he finally asks, watching me take another hit.
I blow smoke right in his face. “I did not get dumped. I’m the one who ended it.”
“The same guy you’ve been with forever? The frat guy? Stan?”
“Sean. And yeah, we’ve been dating on and off since freshman year.”
“Jesus. That’s way too long to be screwing the same person. Was the sex really boring?”
“Why is everything with you always about sex?” I pass the joint back. “And FYI—the sex was fine.”
“Fine?” He snickers. “Wow, what a ringing endorsement.”
I’m already feeling the effects of the weed, my head light and my body relaxed, which is probably the only reason I keep talking. Normally, I wouldn’t dream of confiding in this guy.
“I guess it wasn’t the best by the end,” I admit. “But maybe that’s because we’ve pretty much been fighting since the summer.”
“But this isn’t the first breakup, right? Why’d you keep going back to him?”
“Because I love him.” I correct myself, “Loved him.” God, I don’t even know anymore. “The first couple times we broke up, it wasn’t because either of us did anything wrong. I thought we were getting too serious, too fast. It was freshman year, and it seemed like we should be sowing our wild oats and all that crap.”
“Sowing oats is fun,” he agrees solemnly. “One time I sowed this really hot oat who poured maple syrup all over my dick and then licked it off.”