I woke up feeling tired. I took a shower, still exhausted—and that’s all because of Johnny. I lost the quality of my sleep thinking about his drama last night.
There’s no weighing scale to help me measure him. No calculator to figure out his attitude. And definitely no dictionary in the world that could explain the twists and turns of that chaotic brain of his.
“But at least he gave me fried chicken,” I muttered, picking up the last piece. I saved it for breakfast since I wasn’t hungry while deep-thinking like a madwoman last night.
I have zero idea what his purpose was for showing up and waiting “three f*****g hours” by my door.
My eyes landed on the bouquet of roses. He keeps giving me those. Does he seriously think that just because his money can buy them, we’re suddenly closer?
A
