I flick him a dirty glance. He smirks at me before he leans back in his chair, sprawling really, taking up an irritating amount of space. He is distractingly muscled. Must be from all the barrel hauling he was doing at the distilleries. His faded t-shirt strains at the shoulder seams. Women are darting glances at him, and I can’t tell if it’s because they think he’s regular hot, or because they think he’s famous hot.
No one has worked up the courage to approach, but it’s only a matter of time. Going out with Tristan is impossible now. There’s a permanent crowd of reporters at the estate gates, and I had to physically clear a path for him during the two coffee dates he went on this week. Here, at least, the onlookers seem too in awe to approach him. I scowl as I scan the crowd. I’m sure with enough liquid courage, things will get weird.
And Tristan—I look back at him. He’s not watching the crowd. His green gaze is steady on me from under the brim of a low ball cap that I mocked him for as we drove. His hair curls out from under the edges. He might be famous, but he still fits in here. He is a chameleon. Comfortable whereverhe goes. It’s his innate confidence. I desperately need his help. He’s sipping his beer and waiting for me to hit on someone, and I want to be sick.
“I don’t think I can do this.”
“Why?”
I press my sweaty palms flat on my jeans. I’m not carrying tonight because I thought I might drink, so Nour is on standby. Still. I wipe them again.
“I’ve never picked a guy up before.”
His brows go up. “Never? But you’ve had boyfriends.”
I lift one shoulder. “Here and there. None of them were serious. I just sort of…fell into things with them. They didn’t make me nervous. Shouldn’t I be attracted to a guy enough that he makes me nervous? Shouldn’t my heart flutter?”
Tristan looks alarmed. “I don’t think hearts are supposed to do that.”
I make a face at him. “Tell me how to flirt or how to make small talk, then.” I cast around desperately. “Tell me what men like. Come on, Tristan. You’re a guy. What do you like?”
He stills, beer halfway to his lips. “You want to know what I like?” The bottle clinks hard on the table as he sets it down.
My stomach flips at the intensity of his gaze as he searches my face.Danger.I’m not supposed to care what Tristan likes, but now that I’ve asked, I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff waiting to be pushed off.
“Confidence,” he finally says. His voice is a low hum that skates up my spine. “I like women who are so innately themselves that you can’t look away. People who don’t apologize for being weird or different. You know those people who laugh really loudly? Like the world is one big inside joke?” He leans forward, gaze intense. “That’swhat I like.”
My mouth is dry. Without thinking, I fumble for my drink, only realizing it’s beer after I’ve taken two long, bracing sips and some of it has gone up my nose.
“Is that all?” I cough, eyes watering.
His eyes are laughing at me. “That’s all. Easy enough.”
“Totally easy. Just be myself and the world is my oyster, right?” I snort a laugh and grab for my beer again. Liquid courage is needed if Tristan is going to be this unhelpful.
His expression is slightly alarmed when I look back. “What?”
“Nothing. Are you ready to try and hit on someone?”
I blow out a breath. “How do I know if a guy is into me?”
Tristan coughs, then sets his beer down. “Most guys will be into you.”
I wave that away. Tristan is far too confident. He doesn’t realize what it’s like being a mere mortal. “But how do Iknow? What do you do when you hit on someone? How do you know if there’s attraction or if it’s just the alcohol talking? What if youthinkthere’s something there and then you kiss them and it’s terrible—”
“Bailey.”
“What?”
His lips are quirked. “I can see you spiraling.”
My face heats. “They’re legitimate questions.”
He considers me for a few long seconds. “You know what your issue is?”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“You need confidence.”
