Brie Sheridan has had her heart broken way too many times. Rhett Price is usually the culprit, but, this time, he might be the solution.
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Brooke 'Brie' Sheridan wouldn't necessa...
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BRIE
Sometimes I wonder what my life would have turned out like if I a) had been born rich and b) knew how to keep my mouth shut before I inadvertently say the dumbest thing in the history of dumb things.
Unfortunately, I'm more than used to being looked down both on and at; I'm not particularly tall, barely surpassing five-foot-five, and no one ever takes me seriously for a myriad of reasons. Thus, I'm half-expecting Rhett to tell me I'm being absolutely delusional about all of this, that I have absolutely no reason to keep doubting him or myself, and it's better if I brace myself for the impending impact of the biting response I'll be getting.
The looking at me like I'm stupid part I can handle. I can put on my big girl panties and suck it up, as it's not the first and certainly won't be the last time I'll be put through something like that, but the feelings of inadequacy have a special way of ruining my mood and making me obsess over them for days, sometimes even weeks or months. The longer I dwell on it, the more I devote active mental energy to stop myself from doing so, and noticing the effects it has on me eventually turns into a mechanical process. When it stays automatic, I can delude myself into believing I can ignore them.
These things leave marks, even if you want to pretend they don't, and they act like you're wet cement by how easily they leave a trace behind. It has always bothered me how easily I fall into that trap, but it makes it even worse when I remember how even easier it is for me to always allow for it to happen while knowing about it and about its consequences. Being prepared has never helped me; in fact, it somehow makes everything worse. Am I not supposed to know better?
Am I not supposed to know trusting Rhett Price with matters of the heart—particularly, with matters of my heart—is never a good idea? Haven't I been hurt enough already? Hasn't he trampled over my heart enough times for me to learn from my mistakes?
However, he doesn't look at me like I'm stupid.
He has to look down to look me in the eyes, even when I'm wearing tall heels, for he easily towers over me while still not being one of the tallest guys on the hockey team, but his facial expression remains neutral. If anything, there's a certain curiosity swimming in his eyes like childlike wonder, like I'm the most interesting person at this gala, but we both know there are many people he should be talking to—people he's a much better match for.
Unfortunately for the romantic side of my personality, I'm way past the phase in my life when I thought we were perfect for each other in spite of our differences, a weird kind of star-crossed lovers, an opposites attract situation. That mentality is a product of its time, from back when I romanticized the hustle and straight up believed everyone got the same opportunities and would fulfill their lifelong dreams if they worked hard enough, and thought it was completely normal to have parents working two jobs to make ends meet. I like to think there are still remnants of that girl in the present version of me and my rose-colored glasses—or, at the very least, the best parts of her make up for the worst parts of me—but most of that wide-eyed innocence has vanished.
