What the hell have I stumbled into?
I take a sip and immediately regret it. The drink is somehow both cloyingly sweet and tart, with a cough-syrup aftertaste that clings to my tongue. I glance over at the menu scrawled on a chalkboard behind the makeshift bar. Tonight’s cocktails: Love Potion No. 9 (gin, lavender, poor decisions), It’s Not Me, It’s You (bourbon sour, aggressively bitter), The Ex-Tini (vodka martini, watered down).
I check the drink I’d been handed: It’s Not Me, It’s You. Fitting.
It’s official. I…shouldn’t be here.
I should have texted Levi—sorry, people keep dying—and stayed home. Instead, I’m holding the bottle of pinot I brought in one hand with a relationship self-help book tucked under the other arm, because when I grabbed the wine at the store, the book was eyeing me at checkout:1,001 Ways Not to Die a Bitter Bitch.
It was supposed to be a joke. A “here, I brought this” gesture to elicit a chuckle kinda thing. But now I feel ridiculous. I should have just brought a normal host gift. Like a candle. Or nothing.
“The broody one made it,” Levi’s friend Dominic, if memory serves, says, leaning against the door in the entryway, a martini glass balanced in one hand, and in head-to-toe maroon.
“For the host,” I say, offering the wine. The book is a mistake I can’t return.
He takes it, inspects the label, and nods in approval. “Amazing taste.” Then his gaze flicks to the book. “And this?” His lips twitch.
I sigh, handing it over. “Impulse.”
Dominic smiles, eyes wide. “Oh, Ilikeyou. Go, mingle, and you better not break anyone’s heart,” he warns with a wink before disappearing into the kitchen.
I keep to the edges at first, sipping my unfortunate drink, smiling just enough to seem engaged. Dominic’s place is nice. The furniture is curated, the lighting is warm and flattering, and the music playing through hidden speakers is perfectly set to a volume where conversation can still flow. The place smells expensive. As I move farther in, pink and black streamers drape the mantel, heart-shaped balloons float against the ceiling, and cocktail napkins are printed with phrases likeLove Is DeadandCertified Hater.
The room hums with too much life, but I anchor to one person.
Levi.
My eyes find him instantly. He moves through the crowd like he belongs to everyone. Effortlessly charming, laughing, touchingshoulders and arms as he leans in to listen to his people. The way they’re drawn to him is like a gravitational pull, one I find myself caught in, and the warmth he emits is infuriatingly pleasant to witness.
But when he seesme, a smile grows across his face so wide you’d think the man just won the lottery, and I’m not entirely sure how to untangle the knots that form in my stomach.
“I see you ignored the dress code,” he says, beelining in my direction, cheeks flushed and hair wild. I roll my eyes.
“Hold please,” I say as I push my glass into his hands. I lift my trouser hems, revealing black socks peppered with red hearts. It’s unlike me…but I’m trying, it would appear.
Levi’s eyes brighten. “You bought those for this, didn’t you?”
“I couldn’t possibly imagine what you mean.”
He fights a grin. “Criminal levels of effort,” he says, handing my drink back. “I love it.”
“Effort is effort, I suppose.”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re lucky I like you,” he tosses off.
I freeze. Said so casually, like it means nothing. But it hits like a punch to the ribs.
“Debatable,” I say, slower than before in case my tone betrays me.
He rolls his eyes but grabs my wrist and tugs me toward a group of people near the makeshift bar. There, Levi presses a premade shot into my hand. The drink is bright pink with a black sugar rim, but all I can focus on is the aftershock of contact.
“Now you’re lucky I have a high tolerance for bullshit,” I mutter, inspecting the horrifying concoction thrust upon me.
Levi beams. “Drink first. Insult later.”
He clinks his shot glass to mine. “To topless bottoms and bottomless tops.”
“I decline on grammatical and structural grounds.”
