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"What are you in the mood for? What kind of drinks do you normally like?"
Problem. If we were talking about ice cream, I’d be able to rattle off my top ten favorite flavors in a heartbeat.
But alcohol? It all kinda tasted the same to me: varying levels of throat-burning grossness.
"Um, I like sweet drinks."
Brock gave a knowing nod. "In that case, I’d recommend the Cum-Covering Geyser. It’s got Piña Colada in it and isn’t salty in the slightest."
"Sounds good," I replied, and Brock busied himself preparing my drink.
I looked around the bar as my thoughts turned to Leo’s advice. Maybe he was right. Maybe my instincts weren’t off, but I just wasn’t doing a good job of listening to them. It actually made more sense than he could have known.
With Valentine, with Gavin, and with...the other guy, it never felt right. I didn’t get that warm gush inside that Leo had spoken of. If anything, I’d gotten a niggly bad feeling that I chose to ignore, hoping to override it with what I wanted to see, rather than dealing with the reality staring me in the face.
So I forged ahead, and look where it had gotten me.
I mean, technically, it had gotten me here, and I could think of worse places to be than at Elysian. I just wished it hadn’t cost me so much heartache, humiliation, and a good chunk of my savings along the way.
Brock returned and slid the tall, hurricane-shaped glass in front of me. The drink was a frothy white, with strawberries and shredded chocolate on top. "Thanks." I grabbed the glass by the stem and lifted it to my mouth.
"Oh my god. This is amazing," I announced in amazement after taking my first sip.
"Glad you like it." He gave me a cheeky wink as he went to serve some guests who had swum up to the other end of the bar.
I took another few sips of the drink, feeling the relaxation—or was it the Piña Colada?—buzzing lightly through my veins.
I still couldn’t believe I was here. It felt surreal, in the best way possible.
Suddenly, a British voice wafted in the air, coming from somewhere around me. At first, I heard it so softly that I thought I had imagined it, dreamed it, even.
Have I mentioned how much I looooved British accents? God, I was such a sap.
Then I heard it again, louder this time, so I knew it was really happening and I hadn’t fallen into an alcohol-induced daydream.
"It was a fucking brilliant night, but I didn’t score. Ah-gain," the British voice groaned.
I couldn’t help it. I had to swing around to my right to see who was doing all the sexy-sounding groan-talking.
My drink almost fell out of my hand.
He wasn't just British. He was a British supermodel. Thick tufts of brown hair cascaded messily about on top of his perfectly symmetrical face, and he had a set of plump lips that were made to be kissed.
My eyes drifted down across his broad shoulders and the mountainous crescents of his pecs. I was taking in his pale skin like a mop absorbed water.
As much as I wanted to, I didn’t dare look any further down. But God, I was tempted. Somehow, I managed to pull my eyes upward and pretended not to notice his full lower lip, a rich red color like the strawberry that floated at the top of my drink.
I jerked my head back. I didn't want the supermodel-slash-rugby-player—yes, that was an option, too, judging by his massive arms and solid frame—to catch me staring at him. Any more than I already had, at least. That would have been a tad awkward.
So instead, I casually leaned onto the bar, hedging my ears rightward. A little bit of casual eavesdropping was harmless, though, wasn’t it?
"Did you get anything?" his friend, who I couldn’t see because he was sitting on the other side of him, asked.
"No. He wouldn't even snog me."
I swooned—and no, it was definitely not Piña Colada-related.
That word, though.
