But insisting on that stuff had gotten me nowhere all through high school. Would a rich, hot, popular girl care about cramming shitty fettuccine down her throat before sealing the deal?
No, she would not. She’d be down with whatever.
“Sure,” I heard myself say. “Sounds fun.”
Tyler’s bedroom was bonkers. I was fairly sure the flat screen TV mounted on the wall was bigger than the bed I slept on at home. He couldn’t have cared less about any of the stuff in his house, though. He threw his keys at a bowl and missed, kicked his shoes off without looking where they landed, and sauntered over to his parents’ bar cart as if he had every right to be there.
He splashed some Grey Goose into a coffee mug and handed it to me, keeping the rest of the bottle for himself. I took it and had a tentativ
