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The reader beams at me, mistake already forgotten, and scurries off with her book. When I look back to find the man, he’s gone.

“Addie, you need to get laid."

In response, I wrap my lips around my straw and slurp my blueberry martini as deeply as my mouth will allow. Daya, my best friend, eyes me, entirely unimpressed and impatient based on the quirk of her brow.

I think I need a bigger mouth. More alcohol would fit in it.

I don’t say this out loud because I can bet my left ass cheek that her follow-up response would be to use it for a bigger dick instead.

When I continue sucking on the straw, she reaches over and rips the plastic from my lips. I’ve reached the bottom of the glass a solid fifteen seconds ago and have just been sucking air through the straw. It’s the most action my mouth has gotten in a year now.

“Whoa, personal space,” I mumble, setting the glass down. I avoid Daya’s eyes, searching the restaurant for the waitress so I can order another martini. The faster I have the straw in my mouth again, the sooner I can avoid this conversation some more.

“Don’t deflect, bitch. You suck at it.”

Our eyes meet, a beat passes, and we both burst into laughter.

“I suck at getting laid, too, apparently,” I say after our laughing calms.

Daya gives me a droll look. “You've had plenty of opportunities. You just don’t take them. You’re a hot twenty-six-year-old woman with freckles, a great pair of tits, and an ass to die for. The men are out here waiting.”

I shrug, deflecting again. Daya isn't exactly wrong—at least about having options. I’m just not interested in any of them. They all bore me. All I get is what are you wearing and wanna come over, winky face at one o’clock in the morning. I’m wearing the same sweatpants I’ve been wearing the past week, there’s a mysterious stain on my crotch, and no, I don’t want to fucking come over.

She flips out an expectant hand. “Give me your phone.”

My eyes widen. “Fuck, no.”

“Adeline Reilly. Give me. Your. Fucking. Phone.”

“Or what?” I taunt.

“Or I will throw myself across the table, embarrass the absolute shit out of you, and get my way anyways.”

My eyes finally catch on our waitress and I flag her down. Desperately. She rushes over, probably thinking I found a hair in my food, when really my best friend just has one up her ass right now.

I procrastinate a little bit longer, asking the waitress what drink she prefers. I’d look through the drink menu a second time if it weren’t rude to keep her waiting when she has other tables. So alas, I pick a strawberry martini in favor of the green apple, and the waitress rushes off again.

Sigh.

I hand the phone over, slapping it in Daya’s still outstretched hand extra firm because I hate her. She smiles triumphantly and starts typing away, the mischievous glimmer in her eye growing brighter. Her thumbs go into turbo speed, causing the golden rings wrapped around them to nearly blur.

Her sage green eyes are illuminated with a type of evilness you would only find in Satan’s Bible. If I did a little digging, I’m sure I’d find her picture somewhere in there, too. A bombshell with dark brown skin, pin-straight black hair, and a gold hoop in her nose.

She’s probably an evil succubus or something.

“Who are you texting?” I groan, nearly stomping my feet like a child. I refrain, but come close to allowing a little of my social anxiety to air out and do something crazy like throwing a temper tantrum in the middle of the restaurant. It probably doesn’t help that I’m on my third martini and feeling a tad adventurous right about now.

She glances up, locks my phone, and hands it back a few seconds later. Immediately, I unlock it again and start searching through my messages. I groan aloud once more when I see she sexted Greyson. Not texted. Sexted.

“Come over tonight and lick my pussy. I’ve been craving your huge cock,” I read aloud dryly. That’s not even all of it. The rest goes into how horny I am and touch myself every night to the thought of him.

I growl and give her the filthiest look I can manage. My face would make a dumpster look like Mr. Clean’s house.

“I wouldn’t even say that!” I complain. “That doesn’t even sound like me, you bitch.”

Daya cackles, the teeny little gap between her front teeth on full display.

I really do hate her.