“How’s Donuts?” Caz’s tone was serious, and my eyebrows pulled together as I looked down at him. “Good.” The word was short and clipped because I had the sense I wasn’t going to like his train of thought. He rubbed his hands together, spreading the chalk over his palms. “Do you think she’s going to choose you?” He met my eyes, and his jaw tensed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Anger laced my words. He slapped his hands together in a cloud of chalk dust. “You planned a date night, and she ditched you for happy hour.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Really? At some point she’s going to have to choose between her party life and her drug-free boyfriend. Do you think she’s going to choose you?” He walked between the parallel bars and reached up to grip one as he stared at me. “I’m not asking her to choose.
