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Snog.
Too. Fucking. Cute.
So, let's do a quick recap here, shall we?
British? Check.
Supermodel? Quite possibly.
Slightly heartbroken? Yep. I mean, I felt bad for the guy about that, but even worse for the guy who had missed out on snogging him.
I kept listening.
"I’m fucking cursed, Miguel," the supermodel-slash-rugby-player-slash-possible-surgeon—because, hey, who said hot guys couldn’t have a brain as well?—lamented.
I didn't know what got into me. I should have just kept my big stupid mouth shut and continued sipping on my Cum-Covering Geyser.
But no. I couldn’t do that, could I? That would have been sensible.
I twisted around to face the British slab of brawny Godness and proudly declared, "If you wanna know a thing or two about getting dumped, I'm your man."
Both guys turned around to face me. They seemed a little surprised, but not in an unfriendly way.
"I'm Mitchell," I proudly declared. "Mitch for short. M for even shorter."
M for even shorter?
Did I really just say that? I sucked in an embarrassed breath.
Thankfully, the supermodel’s and his friend’s faces remained stoically unmoved, giving me hope I’d be able to brush that minor brain fart under the carpet.
But I had to keep talking to make sure they forgot it. Okay...so maybe that was the Piña Colada officially taking over the control center of my brain.
I didn’t know why, but my mouth just kept on yapping. "I've been dumped three times this year." I held up one, two—there we go—three fingers in the air, dangling them in front of his perfectly structured face.
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." The British supermodel’s voice was laced with pity. But...a sexy pity?
Wait. Was that even a thing?
Man, that accent made every word sound sexy. I wondered how he’d pronounce ricotta. Or undulating. Or Mitchell, as he was driving his British dong deep into my American ass while snogging the life out of me.
"I've been dumped so badly"—Why? Why was I still talking?—"that I even won a radio contest giveaway. The person who sucked at love the most won a weekend here. And no one sucks more at love than me."
You could pierce the air with a knife.
But I still had one more gasp of stupidity left in me. "So if you want to know why someone didn't snog you"—my lips twitched involuntarily as I said the word snog—"then I. Am. Your. Man."
5
CAYMAN
Miguel’s jaw had pretty much dropped to the bar, and I had a feeling mine wasn’t too far behind him, either.
The cutest-looking boy I had ever laid my eyes on—with his mid-length ashy blond hair that he wore up and perfectly styled and light brown eyes, the color of watered-down whiskey—was blinking at us through dark-tipped lashes. His lips were slightly parted. I noticed that because his bottom lip quivered just a little, but enough to draw my eye.
He had just sprayed out a whole bunch of words at us. Surely, he had to be kidding, though. How could this wondrous creature have been dumped three times? But he wasn’t laughing, so maybe he had meant it?
My pulse quickened as I reached out, grazing his smooth forearm. He glanced down at my fingers before locking eyes with me.
