You and Me Read Online Free Page A
Author: Veronica Larsen
kernel of the truth peeking out behind the blatant lie. So, maybe I do care a little if Jackson thinks I'm crazy. Maybe I'm mad at myself for getting my hopes up the instant I met him. Beautiful man, the perfect harmony of humor, cool blue eyes that bathe me in tantalizing intensity.
Freaking brain surgeon.
I wanted to want him. I wanted to like him.
I think I did both, way too quickly.
Delilah joins us from the kitchen, carrying a plate. "You guys, you have to try these."
Grace and I exchange a look. Delilah fancies herself a baker, with her collection of aprons and large array of expensive baking gear decorating the countertops. She tries so hard, bless her heart.
" Ah , I'm on a diet," Grace says as if disappointed. "But, Samantha, weren't you just saying you were dying for something sweet?"
I glare at my asshole of a friend.
"These aren't exactly sweet," Delilah points out. "They're sugar-free, gluten-free, fat-free, dairy-free, oatmeal cookies."
No flour, no sugar, no butter, no milk…
"So…they're just baked balls of oatmeal, then?" I ask, turning to smile slyly at Grace. "Dude, they're perfect for your diet."
Delilah sets the plate on the coffee table, takes a 'cookie,' and sits down in the armchair across from us.
"Eat up, there's another batch in the oven," she says, looking on expectedly.
Grace tucks her blonde hair behind her ear. She and I both bring the oatmeal concoctions up to our mouths, slowly, as if playing a game of chicken.
"Wait—so this guy's a surgeon?" Grace asks suddenly, coyly lowering the cookie. "You obviously have a type."
"We know they hit it off well with the parents," Delilah muses, rolling her eyes for good measure.
Our parents are obstetricians. Holiday dinners tend to end up in arguments where my father inevitably reveals his disappointment at the fact that neither my sister nor I chose traditional medical careers. The only time I've ever managed to make either of them proud was when I brought home a penis wielding surgeon. It was as if my ex's profession made up for mine.
Delilah gets it worse than I do, but she takes it in stride, not caring much one way or the other what my parents think. I, on the other hand, can't keep from getting defensive. Because having to defend what I do to anyone frustrates me beyond measure. Like the little girl inside of me that secretly seeks my parents approval wants to jump up and down and beg for validation.
"What kind of surgeon?" Grace asks, interest brightening up her blue eyes.
I answer immediately to avoid taking a bite. "Neurosurgeon."
"Is this that guy down the hall with the biceps of a Greek god?" she asks, setting the cookie down on the table as though she's too excited to eat. I nod, but narrow my eyes to silently convey I see what she's doing. She smirks. "Oh, he's yummy. Did you call dibs? Because you can't get greedy if you didn't call dibs."
Suddenly I'm not amused, but before I can say anything, Delilah chimes in thoughtfully, "He's not right for you. He's a fire sign."
I blink at her. "And how do you even know that?"
"I can just tell. He gives off intense fire sign vibes. But, he's too wrapped up in his own world, earphones stuck in his ears all the time. Never makes eye contact. He's disturbing his aura, blaring all that angry music. I could hear it in the elevator standing three feet away."
To Delilah, anything with any hint of tempo is angry music. But I make a mental note, because that's something I could suggest to Jackson next time I see him.
You're aura's all angry, man. It's the music you listen to disturbing your cellular structure.
I might even be able to fit a penis reference in there.
Grace cuts in. "She's saying that you must've made an impression if he finally got his head out of his own ass—"
"Well, he should've just kept it there," I say. "Where it belongs."
"That wasn't what I meant," Delilah says. "We only get one egg a month and we've got to be pickier about who can accidentally
Freaking brain surgeon.
I wanted to want him. I wanted to like him.
I think I did both, way too quickly.
Delilah joins us from the kitchen, carrying a plate. "You guys, you have to try these."
Grace and I exchange a look. Delilah fancies herself a baker, with her collection of aprons and large array of expensive baking gear decorating the countertops. She tries so hard, bless her heart.
" Ah , I'm on a diet," Grace says as if disappointed. "But, Samantha, weren't you just saying you were dying for something sweet?"
I glare at my asshole of a friend.
"These aren't exactly sweet," Delilah points out. "They're sugar-free, gluten-free, fat-free, dairy-free, oatmeal cookies."
No flour, no sugar, no butter, no milk…
"So…they're just baked balls of oatmeal, then?" I ask, turning to smile slyly at Grace. "Dude, they're perfect for your diet."
Delilah sets the plate on the coffee table, takes a 'cookie,' and sits down in the armchair across from us.
"Eat up, there's another batch in the oven," she says, looking on expectedly.
Grace tucks her blonde hair behind her ear. She and I both bring the oatmeal concoctions up to our mouths, slowly, as if playing a game of chicken.
"Wait—so this guy's a surgeon?" Grace asks suddenly, coyly lowering the cookie. "You obviously have a type."
"We know they hit it off well with the parents," Delilah muses, rolling her eyes for good measure.
Our parents are obstetricians. Holiday dinners tend to end up in arguments where my father inevitably reveals his disappointment at the fact that neither my sister nor I chose traditional medical careers. The only time I've ever managed to make either of them proud was when I brought home a penis wielding surgeon. It was as if my ex's profession made up for mine.
Delilah gets it worse than I do, but she takes it in stride, not caring much one way or the other what my parents think. I, on the other hand, can't keep from getting defensive. Because having to defend what I do to anyone frustrates me beyond measure. Like the little girl inside of me that secretly seeks my parents approval wants to jump up and down and beg for validation.
"What kind of surgeon?" Grace asks, interest brightening up her blue eyes.
I answer immediately to avoid taking a bite. "Neurosurgeon."
"Is this that guy down the hall with the biceps of a Greek god?" she asks, setting the cookie down on the table as though she's too excited to eat. I nod, but narrow my eyes to silently convey I see what she's doing. She smirks. "Oh, he's yummy. Did you call dibs? Because you can't get greedy if you didn't call dibs."
Suddenly I'm not amused, but before I can say anything, Delilah chimes in thoughtfully, "He's not right for you. He's a fire sign."
I blink at her. "And how do you even know that?"
"I can just tell. He gives off intense fire sign vibes. But, he's too wrapped up in his own world, earphones stuck in his ears all the time. Never makes eye contact. He's disturbing his aura, blaring all that angry music. I could hear it in the elevator standing three feet away."
To Delilah, anything with any hint of tempo is angry music. But I make a mental note, because that's something I could suggest to Jackson next time I see him.
You're aura's all angry, man. It's the music you listen to disturbing your cellular structure.
I might even be able to fit a penis reference in there.
Grace cuts in. "She's saying that you must've made an impression if he finally got his head out of his own ass—"
"Well, he should've just kept it there," I say. "Where it belongs."
"That wasn't what I meant," Delilah says. "We only get one egg a month and we've got to be pickier about who can accidentally
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