We laugh, looping our arms together as we walk down the sidewalk on our way to meet up with our friends, Taylor and Layla. It’s just after ten p.m., the nightlife awakening from its daytime slumber. Music pumps from inside the small bars and restaurants we pass down the block, lines are forming as bouncers check for ID’s and collect money from their over-excited patrons.
“You are so going to get lucky tonight,” Christiana hoots, giving me two snaps of her fingers and a waggle of her brows with wide eyes as they scan me from head to toe.
I glance down to see what she sees, feeling a burst of proud self-confidence, which I haven’t possessed in a long time. Especially with how Miles has treated me lately, with such dispassionate interest, as if I’m inconsequential.
He’s definitely not the same guy he was when Melodie was alive. The Miles I knew back then was someone kind, loving toward his sister and grandmother, and an all-around decent guy, even if he was the biggest flirt in town.
Now he’s just an arrogant, stuck-up big shot.
At least that was my impression until a few days ago while at the pool, when he acted entirely out of character and became the guy I’d dreamed about as a teenager. The same man I’ve dreamed about every night since.
Undeniably sexy, charming, flirtatious, and fun to talk to. He was flirting with me, wasn’t he?
Now after several very strong drinks at our first stop, while we wait for Taylor and Layla to arrive, my head buzzes happily with the delicious effects of the alcohol. The libations swim through my limbs, clouding my mind just enough so I’m not a hundred percent sure if I’m clearly and accurately recalling what transpired between Miles and me.
What I do know is he’s been on my mind nonstop, but it’s just a ridiculous fascination and an unrequited attraction. He has no more interest in me now than he did when I was a brace-faced teenager.
Anyway, Miles probably has a girlfriend, and I can’t compete with the type of woman he’s likely to date. I envision him with stick-thin, sexy models or Ivy League educated, boardroom women who like to get kinky after-hours.
Not someone like me who rarely goes out or knows how to do anything more than study, work, and barely take care of myself.
Christiana orders a bottle of cheap champagne when Taylor and Layla arrive, and we laugh and talk, gaining the attention of a few men who stop by our table to offer us drinks and invitations to dance.
Technically, the offers are for Christiana and Layla more often than not, because they both exude a sensual, exotic beauty that appeals to most men. Both have darker, supple skin, dark eyes with long lashes, and are well endowed.
Whereas Taylor and I are both flat as boards. I may have a bit more in that area than she does because she’s a dancer in a New York dance company and therefore is extremely thin and waif-like.
As I take another sip of champagne, I look down at my chest and sigh.
“What’s that disgruntled noise about?” Taylor questions, cocking her head to the side, showing me a toothy grin.
Her long blond hair hangs loose and is down tonight, not in the tight bun I typically see her wear. Her slim nose points downward as she peers at me through her false eyelashes, which she insists are a must-have; otherwise, she has ghost-eyes, with lashes so blond they are barely visible.
I shrug. “Nothing really. I’ve just never had the same assets they have to attract the admirers like they do.”
I gesture with a chin bob to the dance floor where Christiana and Layla dance wildly to an old ‘80s song, men flocking to their sides like bees swarming around the queen in the hive.
“If that is true, then tell me why the guy by the bar has been watching you the past ten minutes?” She lifts her champagne glass and, using her pinky finger, points toward the bar in the opposite direction of the dance floor where I’ve been staring.
By focusing on our dancing friends, I’ve been oblivious to anyone else unless they’ve been in my field of vision. So, when I turn to catch the gaze of the man in question, I gasp loudly, shock registering across my face.
Snapping back around, I return my attention down at the table.
“Oh my goodness,” I mutter under my breath. “I know him.”
Taylor leans forward, propping her chin on her hand and looks to me for an answer. “Really? Do tell. I’d like to get to know him too.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I absently hum, biting my lip and stealing a furtive glance in my peripheral vision to see if Miles is still looking our way.
He is and something in his molten hot glare is both alarming and hungry. Sinister yet sexy.
There’s a moment I think he’s going to stand up and walk over to me. At least until I notice the woman that steps up behind him, her arm dangling suggestively over his shoulder, breasts smooshed against his body to whisper in his ear.
A stab of jealousy hits me in the throat, blocking my airway with the intensity of the feeling. Is he here on a date? Is that his girlfriend? And why was he staring at me if he’s here with another woman?
None of those questions can be answered at the moment because Layla runs over to our table to grab our hands, drag us to our feet, and pull us out onto the dance floor.
Taylor and I make noises of irritation and utter a few loud curses, but we’re soon swallowed up by the crowd and swept up under the lights and the blaring music, as we each unleash our inhibitions and just let loose.
