Re: Mean-Eyed Cat: Cat & Reece E
A dream vacation. He was clearly repeating those words in his head, flatly, unimpressed, and, now, insulted. Reece scowled at the woman telling him she was so much better than him. He would never admit it—especially not to her—but that actually hurt, what she said, since it hit his insecurities almost head on with a pair of spiked knuckles. (It turned out growing up with one arm really didn't do you any favors when it came to self-esteem. Or anything else.) He struggled with feelings of worth often enough (very secretly), her smirk only earned her a sour pout.—He knew he should scan her. He might find out telling details he could use as a salvo, something to save himself some shred of his dignity, but, almost out of spite to... himself...?—he didn't. He refused to let her see those things he was normally so proud of, like somehow she didn't deserve it. Or, more probable: like he didn't want to give her more fodder to throw in his face. She'd call him a freak and he didn't want that.
Still, blame the alcohol, because as petulant as he was feeling, he still blushed at the idea of her on his arm--and--and at the idea of pretending to be together, because he had no clue what that might even look like. Would they have to hold hands and be lovey-dovey in front of everyone? Reece's pout turned into a frown, still sulky, and he took that last-poured shot of whiskey without blinking.
Heat continued to climb up his throat and into his cheeks, but he pretended it wasn't happening. "Fine." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Fine." He didn't look at her, focusing his gaze instead on his fingertips as he rolled the shot glass in his real palm. "What do I have to do, besides pretend to enjoy your presence?"