Unedited

“So much for your aversion to blondes.” At this point, I don’t care if there’s a whole lot of attitude coming across in my voice. I draw the line at jealous though. I’m not that. I just don’t appreciate him lying to me when I was in a vulnerable position.

Josh stares at me as if I’m one of those women who claims her latest celebrity crush—a guy she’s never met—is the father of her unborn child. Yeah, like I’m certifiable with a sprinkling of nuts.

“When did I ever tell you I didn’t like blondes?”

He sounds as if the idea is blasphemous. As if a blonde’s appeal is so universal, a man is presumed interested unless proven guilty by a jury of his horny peers and sentenced to a lifetime of celibacy. Jerk.

“When you were playing with my hair, that’s when,” I snap, now at the stage where I want to wring his insensitive neck.

“When did I ever play with your hair?” he asks, sounding even more bewildered. Apparently, that’s worse than being accused of not being into blondes.

I roll my eyes. “Calm down. I didn’t say you were playing hairdresser and adding highlights to it.” God forbid I offend his fragile masculine ego with something that makes him appear the least bit romantic. Booty calls aren’t afforded such affection.   

Shaking his head, he moves a step closer to me. “I’m serious, when did I ever play with your hair?”

He can’t remember. How like a man. His brain shuts down when he’s getting what he wants. “How about the first time you took me from behind? Does that jog your memory?”