Good for her.
I glance over to Josh, who sits like a cockroach hiding in a dark corner. What did I ever see in him? Compared to Elliott, he’s?—
Nope.
Not going there.
“Excuse me?” I wave at the bartender with the piercing. “Can I get another one?”
The longer I’m here, the weirder this gets. I’ve had three glasses of gin, and Josh still hasn’t moved. Does he think I’m going to go over and talk to him? HA! It’ll take more than alcohol to get me to converse with a cockroach.
I pick up my phone. Still no messages.
Next time I drink, I’m leaving my phone at home.
I cannot believe I texted Elliott and practically begged him to come and save me.
Damsel much?
I can take care of myself. I don’t need a guy to swoop to the rescue.
There shall be no swooping.
I’m going to save myself.
Because that’s what strong, independent heroines do.
But first… I hold up a hand, calling one of the shot girls over.
“Which one do you want?” she shouts over the pulsing music, lowering the tray of colorful liquids so I can choose. Does it really matter which one I pick? If I drink enough of them, the end result will be the same.
A hand slips along my lower back, and my body goes stiff as a corpse. I turn, expecting to see Josh, but the hand doesn’t belong to him.
Elliott is smiling down at me, his dark hair damp against his temples.
Elliott is leaning down to say against my ear: “Personally, I’m partial to the green ones.”
Elliot Grant ishere.
I throw my arms around his neck, breathing in the delicious cologne on his skin that smells even better than his soap. “You came.”
Okay, that was a little exuberant. Chill out, Loren.
When Elliott pulls away, he doesn’t look annoyed. If anything, he looks happy as he leans an elbow against the bar, blocking my view of Josh. “You asked if I was thirsty, and I am.” From his pocket, he withdraws his wallet, paying for my shot and asking if the bartender could drop down a soda. “Where’s Meg?”
“Dancing.”
“Why aren’tyoudancing?” he asks, stepping closer, his strong arms caging me in.
My body melts from the heat of him. “I haven’t found anyone I want to dance with.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.” A smirk. “I’m not. Where is he?”
“End of the bar.”
