Yeah, I Hate You Too, Sweetheart.

Chapter 7 - Laila

    Laila

  

   There was a loud knock on my door. I glanced up from Romeo and Juliet and checked the time on my cell phone. It was just a little after eight. We’d already eaten dinner; Kim was entertaining Mom with the latest drafts of her upcoming novel, Laurence was locked away in his study working on blueprints, Emma was at yet another friend’s house (this time the Yew family) and Justin was off somewhere doing God only knows what. Who would come knocking my door at this hour, unless it was Miranda or someone asking for something?

  When the incessant knocking started to get extremely annoying, I let out a huff and rolled off the bed before padding my way over to the door. Cracking it open, I arched an eyebrow in blatant surprise.

  “Can I help you?” I asked Justin, not unkindly. 

I hadn’t seen Justin since the day before – he’d gone off on some day-trip with a few of his buddies from school, into the city – and hadn’t gotten back until late last night. Long after I’d already turned in for the night.  

 It was pretty much pathetic to realize that I was still bowled over by how ridiculously attractive the guy was as I took in his appearance.

  He was wearing a black button-down shirt that’s sleeves were pushed up to his elbows. His hair was damp, like he’d just gotten out of the shower, falling across his forehead in waves, flopping into his bright emerald colored eyes.

  Oh. My. God.

Did this guy wield his gorgeous good looks like a dangerous weapon or what?

  “Get dressed,” Justin said in a brisk tone, crossing his arms over his chest. “We’re going out.”

“We’re going out,” I repeated flatly.

  The corners of Justin’s mouth turned up into a crooked grin.

“You heard me, sweetheart. We’re going out. So go change.”

  It was my turn to indignantly cross my arms, glaring up at him agitatedly.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  Both of our attentions flickered down towards my outfit at the same time. He was definitely right about asking me to change, darn him. I was wearing a ratty pair of sweatpants and an old Beatles t-shirt. Knowing Justin and the people that he probably hung out with, my outfit was hardly up to their standards.

  “Go change into something…nice,” Justin ordered, reaching out to tug on a loose strand of my t-shirt. “And do something with your hair.”

  Now I was just getting pissed off.

 “I get your part about changing, but what’s wrong with my hair?” I demanded, resisting the urge to reach up and smack him.