“Any preference?”
I shrug. “Whatever you think.”
Velvet eyes me for a moment before turning away, reaching for a crystal glass. He grabs a bottle and pours, and I watch as bubbles rise and break against the rim. Someone steps up beside me, close enough that I can feel the shift in the air.
I peer over at the man when he nudges me with his elbow.
“New here?” he asks, and I give him a small nod as Velvet slides thechampagne toward me. I slide my credit card toward him, and he takes it before moving on to another customer.
My fingers curl around the cool glass, and I turn to face the man who nudged me. He’s thin, his brown hair slicked back, his clothes perfectly ironed and color coordinated.
So different from Caleb, I think.
The perfect man to help me forget about him.
I take a sip of my drink as the man assesses me.
“What’s your name?”
I think about Caleb asking me that when we first met and how he rolled my name off his lips on repeat, as if trying to ingrain it in his memory. How that made me feel.
The way it still makes me ache.
“Whit.”
“Whit. Nice to meet you. I’m Levi.”
I roll my lips between my teeth. “Hello, Levi.”
I try to smile at him, but it feels wrong. All of this feels fucking wrong.
Levi bites his bottom lip, one that is a little too thin, not as thick as Caleb’s, and then he flicks his gaze up to me a little flirtatiously.
“You look a little young. How old are you?”
“I’m old enough to get in here,” I tell him, and he grins, his teeth a little too straight and perfect.
“Seems so. You want to head back to the Vault? They have private rooms there. We could chat a little. Get to know one another.”
I know what he wants. I should want it, too. That’s why I came here.
But my fingers tighten around my drink, and then I turn away from him. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”
He huffs in annoyance and then stalks away, knowing he’s not going to get what he wants from me tonight. What Ishouldwant from him.
Fuck.
As I stand there, berating myself for not taking him up on his offer, I drain the rest of my champagne and silently rage at my roommate.
My fingers rake through my hair just as his face flashes in my mind. I pull out my phone and stare at the screen, knowing I shouldn’tmessage him. But my thumbs move anyway, words forming before I can stop them.
I stare down at what I’ve written, then delete it.
I willnotsend that.
Absolutely not.
“What are you looking so sad about?” a deep voice asks from my left.
