Sweet Girl Read Online Free PDF

anything.
    Good effing grief! Who brings a man over without even a text message of warning?
    I stand up to glare properly at them both, and when I put my hands on my hips, I realize that I still have a lobster-claw oven mitt on each hand. The fact that I look ridiculous isn’t helping my annoyance level.
    “Hey, Princess,” I hiss, and she has the sense to look contrite. “I thought we talked about bringing douche bags back to the apartment.”
    Taylor looks back at me, and I meet his challenging stare with one of my own. He’s taller than I am (which is saying something), with dark-brown hair and eyes. Landon and Miko think he looks like a built version of Adam Levine. They offer this up like it’s some kind of compliment, but I think Maroon 5 are my mom’s favorite band . . . which pretty much sums up their level of cool.
    Taylor leans up against the wall with his arms crossed like he’s settling in to watch a show. I’m momentarily distracted by the tattoos that cover both of his arms in a kaleidoscope of color. When I follow the line up towards the sleeve of his white T-shirt, his bicep flexes. My gaze snaps up to the humor dancing in his eyes. He thinks I was checking him out. I glare at them both.
    “Max, don’t be rude. You know Taylor isn’t, well, that. He’s helping Miko and me with the layout for the party, and since we’re sampling cocktails anyway, I thought it’d be easier to do it all at once.”
    “I wasn’t aware I make you so uncomfortable, Jennings,” Taylor says with mock sincerity. “I’d be happy to come back another time.”
    I start to point an angry finger in his direction, but then I realize my hand is still covered by a giant fabric claw and slam it back down to my side.
    “In order for you to make me uncomfortable, I’d first have to give a damn, Bennett.” I purposefully use his first name since only his friends call him by his last. We’re definitely not friends. In fact, I assume the only reason Landon and Miko like him is because they all worked events together. Based on the dark circles under Landon’s eyes during the latter part of her time at SSE, I’m guessing working events together is sort of like being in the same platoon. I don’t care if they think he’s great, or that he’s some kind of wunderkind in event production and uses that knowledge to help them out. He might play Boy Scout with them all he wants, but he’s gone out of his way to antagonize me since the moment we met.
    He responds with an amused grin, which I ignore by turning back around to clean up the rest of my mess. Landon walks through the kitchen with her bags and, in her typical style of avoiding conflict, refuses to acknowledge our bickering.
    “I’m going to change out of these work clothes. Y’all try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”
    I start to pile dirty dishes into the sink and pick my way through the destroyed kitchen. Chocolate- and flour-covered bowls and spatulas are everywhere. Broken potato chips are strewn about as if I threw them into the air like confetti. I am not a tidy cook, and it takes several minutes of scrubbing before I can even see the countertop again. Taylor doesn’t speak or move, but I can feel him watching me. I’m positive that if I turned around now I’d see him grinning like a jackass.
    When the last dirty spatula sails into the sink with the other dishes, I turn to grab my brownies from the oven. Mindful of my audience, I don’t bend down this time as I use my lobster claw to pull them out. As soon as they are visible, Taylor gasps, and I turn my head to face him.
    “Dear Lord, are those potato chips?” He pushes himself off the wall and comes to stare into the pan as if I’m holding plutonium. I look along with him, surprised that my desire to push him out of my personal space is warring with the excitement I hear in his voice.
    “It’s”—I clear my throat—“it’s a mixture of potato chips and pretzels. It’s a play off of