Definition: Slut [ complete ]

[ Date Night ]

NOTE:
This story will be removed the moment I finish it's prequel (S's & Ex's). And then I'm going to rewrite this <3
See description for link.

[Date Night]

Romantic was last thing on Josh's mind-or at least, it seemed to be. It didn't take much flour on my face and cinnamon on my hair to realize this. I imagined that we would be baking cookies and cuddling by the fireplace while we watched some sort of a romantic movie and talk. Of course, it would involve a couple of pecks of kisses here and there, and possible make outs, but after being covered with flour, I highly doubted that Josh would be that lucky tonight.

"Harriet," he said with a smile that could have been worth a million dollars. He looked at me with eyes that could possibly see through my soul. "Cinnamon matches your hair," he commented.

Ah, could you feel the romance in the air?

Because I certainly could not.

I scoffed. "First off, shut up. I happen to like my hair," I said, pointing at the red strands that were sprinkled with orangey-coloured cinnamon. My red hair was in a mess, all because I didn't think that Josh would do such great damage to it in a matter of minutes. I would have tied it up if I knew we were going to engage on a fight that included flour, cinnamon, sugar, and other non-hair-friendly products. I've hated the colour back when I was younger; it made me feel like a flag with the red colour. From time to time, I felt like I was modeling for a Primary Colour Runway whenever I wore something yellow or blue. However, I grew to love my hair.

Josh rolled his dark eyes. His famous smirk was plastered on his face as he tilted his head to the side. "Red, orange, it all means one thing: Redhead. Like, you know, Pipi Long Stockings. Or the Wendy's girl."

I knew then and there that the redhead jokes were about to commence. I haven't told him that they didn't bother me at all. But, it was cute that he thought it did. I frowned anyway. "Is that it?" I asked, crossing my arms over my chest, playing along with his little game.

Josh's grin grew bigger. "Yes," he replied, biting his lips. His words might have said so, but the glint in his eyes showed quite the opposite. "Someone told all of them to a redhead," he finished with laughter, his voice cracking.

I haven't heard of that for a long time. I rolled my eyes at his immaturity. To think that when I first met Josh Masterson in the ninth grade (freshman year), he appeared to be the dangerous, scary kind of a guy-someone you would avoid at all cost. However, now that I was this close to him, I could honestly say, without hesitation or any such sort of uncertainty, that Josh was the most juvenile, stubborn and childish person I have met.

Yes, juvenile and childish practically meant the same thing, which scarcely displayed half of Josh's immaturity. Before I knew this side of him, he'd always been the, quote unquote, "hottie in dark clothing at the back of the class," who always seemed to give cold glares and be cruel to people. But now, he was just Josh.

Josh with no mask or façade.

Josh being playful, teasing me, baking for me.

Josh being Josh.

I shook my head, wiping the flour off of my face with the towel. "And secondly," I continued, pointing a finger on him accusingly. He held his hand up for show, pretending as though he was caught in a middle of a crime scene. "You're mean."

He just grinned. "But you love it." He took two strides across the room and gently wrapped his arms around me. I would have punched him otherwise if he hadn't whispered "love you" to my ears. His voice was a little huskier-a bit manlier-maybe even more mature than how he typically sounded when he was like this. I've always felt safe around his arms, mainly because I seemed to fit perfectly between his arms and chest.