I turn back around, ready to tell Branson to bring his sad vibes somewhere else. What is it with him always scowling like somebody has personally offended him by having fun? I don’t have any time to think about it before I collide into someone’s chest.
“Jesus, can you watch where you’re going,” I mutter, pulling myself out of this stranger’s weirdly comforting smell. It reminds me of Gio’s house, woody and homey. Still, I don’t exactly want to nuzzle my face in it right now.
“Clearly not,” the guy murmurs, his voice deep and sultry that it runs through me like honey, feeling it low and tight in my stomach. I look up at him.
Holy shit.
He’s gorgeous. Like, Calvin Klien model level of gorgeous.
He looks like a young Henry Cavill – all dark features, sharp jaw, but a kind and smooth face. His eyes are a bright brown colour that pairs well with the tight black shirt he’s wearing. And his chest is hard and firm. Frankly, it’s unfair for him to look this good.
“You alright?” he asks me, steadying me with his firm grip on my elbow.
I shake my head and when I see his head tilt with a smirk, I nod. How am I getting tongue tied over a guy I just met? I never get tongue tied. Ever. I’m not supposed to. It’s undeniably out of character for me. I’ve got tongue tied over one guy, Jake, and well…you know how that ended.
So, I blurt out, “You can’t just go around with allthat,” gesturing to his chest, “and not expect people to bump into it.”
“You calling my chest an ‘it,’ darling?” he asks playfully.
He’s British?
Game changer or game over? I can't decide. I shake my head again, trying to get rid of all the filthy things I can imagine him saying in that accent.
“‘Darling?’Are you serious?Youjust bumped intome. The least you can do is apologise,” I say, instantly getting defensive.
He clears his throat. “You’re right. I’m sorry mythatgot in the way of your night,” he says cooly. I can tell he’s fighting a smile at how ridiculous this is, but I can’t help but smile too. He holds out his hand. “Maxwell Grant, but most of my friends call me Max.”
I take his hand in mine. I’ve learnt how to shake a person's hand.More like I forced my brothers to teach me the best way to do so to seem intimidating.So, I pull his large hand into mine and squeeze it and watch the surprise flash across his face.
“Scarlett,” I say back, letting go of his hand.
“No last name?”
“Nope,” I say. I’ve learnt that if they don’t introduce themselves to me first, they’re more likely to have no idea who I am. He’s lucky he bumped into me on accident. I’d be damned if I ever give a man the satisfaction of thinking they know me by judging me off my last name. “So, Maxwell, is this a usual thing for you? Just bumping into girls and not apologising.”
He lets out a short laugh. “I said you can call me ‘Max’ and I did apologise eventually.”
“You said your friends call you ‘Max,’” I retort, feigning confusion.
He holds my stare, a strange fire igniting in my lower stomach. I can’t remember the last time talking to a guy has excited me so much. If Kennedy could hear this, she’d be all over it, believing that the universe sent him to me.
Fuck it.
He leans into me, and I have to crane my neck to look up at him because fuck, he’s tall. He pulls out his wallet from his back pocket, twirling it in his hand. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“I’ll get it,” I say, shaking my head. I know I just met the guy and it’s a nicer gesture, but I know better than letting a technical stranger buy me a drink. Who knows what he could do to it. He quirks an eyebrow and he thinks it’s better not to ask and passes me two twenties.
It’s partly a pathetic excuse to collect my wits, but it’s an excuse, nonetheless. I watch the smile creep on his face and it’s fucking adorable as he nods over to the bar. Which is concerning contrasting his very bad boy, I’ll-fuck-you-into-next-week kind of energy. I pat him on the shoulder, slipping past him to get to the bar and – of course – Evan is still there.
“New friend?” he asks when I reach the bar, nodding over to where I left Max in the crowd. Evan’s leaning his back against the bar while I face the other way, waiting for a bartender to turn up.
“What happened to ‘Hello?” I ask, not sure why he wants to suddenly be involved in my personal life.
He shrugs. “Just making polite conversation.”
“That’s not how you make conversation, Branson. They usually start with nice greetings,” I say sweetly, as if I’m talking to a baby. He scoffs. “We agreed to help each other with school and my family. What I do outside of that is none of your business. Plus, I’m with Kennedy and Wren, I don’t need you babying me.”
He turns to me, setting his dark green eyes on me, resting one arm on the bar. “That’s even more of a reason for me to be here. If Wren's here, Miles would kill me if I didn't stay and watch over you.”
