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I want to turn around, want to see what she’s doing. But I’m not that desperate, no matter how much I want to lick my way inside those perfect lips of hers.
Except, it turns out I am that desperate because as Clay prattles on about God only knows what, I can’t help glancing over my shoulder. Our eyes meet and my heart jumps to my throat. Because instead of looking interested or flattered or any of the other reactions I expected, she looks pale, stricken.
It makes no sense, and I can’t help wondering if something else happened in the last couple of minutes. But no, she’s looking straight at me, and for a second, just a second, it looks like there are tears in her eyes.
Then she’s scooting her chair back, breaking eye contact and all but running for the restrooms at the back of the bar.
What. The. Hell?
Chapter 3
Sage
I’m an idiot. A total and complete moron and I have no one to blame but myself.
What was I thinking, imagining even for a second, that he was flirting with me? Worse, that he was interested in me? Men like him don’t look twice at women like me. I learned that a long time ago, and nothing that’s happened in the last ten years has proven me wrong.
I almost died
when he sent over that round of old-fashioneds. Almost fell right through the floor. Most of the other women were charmed by what they called “such a classy drink,” but it was hard to miss that he was making fun of me. That he was calling me old-fashioned and probably uptight, too.
I mean, who wears a high-collared blouse and wide-legged pants to a bachelorette party? Who refuses to engage in ridiculous, dick-themed revelry? Who is so lame that she doesn’t have more than three drinks in an evening, even when there’s a hired driver?
A square like me.
I’ve heard the same old refrain my whole life, starting with my mom, who thinks I am the most boring person on the planet. Normally it doesn’t bother me—in fact, I like it. The world needs squares like me to balance out the more undefined edges of people like my mother. We keep the bills paid and the lights on when everything around us is going to hell on a flying yoga mat.
I’m proud of my normalcy, proud that despite the most flighty, woo-woo, run-off-to-India-to-find-her-guru mother in the world, I’ve managed to grow into a responsible, respectable person.
But there’s nothing exciting about responsible and respectable. Nothing sexy about it. I know that. I’ve always known that. Still tonight, just for a minute, I thought maybe Hot Stuff was actually interested in me. Thought for once, that maybe he saw more than the boring old square—or if that was all he saw, maybe he didn’t care that that’s who I was. And then he went and sent those drinks to make fun of me.
Asshole.
To be honest, I’m not sure if I’m talking to myself or to him. I’m the one who looked back at him, after all. I’m the one who batted her eyes at him all night. And I’m the one who was stupid enough to let herself believe that a guy like that—a guy who has risk-taker written all over him—might want more from her than a good laugh.
Yeah, I’m definitely the asshole in this equation.
For a moment, just a moment, hot tears burn against the backs of my eyes. I swipe them away impatiently, then make a beeline for the bathroom so I can get a little privacy. I just need a minute to put myself back together, a minute to remember that I don’t care what Hot Stuff thinks of me. Or what any of the women at that bachelorette party think of me. I’m the only reason most of them have jobs. If I left the studio in my mother’s so-not-capable hands, it would have gone under a long time ago.
I’m almost to the bathroom, almost to safety, when someone takes hold of my elbow. Expecting it to be Autumn, or maybe Skye, I’m a little surprised by the strong grip—even before I turn around and find myself looking up, up, up into the most beautiful bittersweet chocolate colored eyes I’ve ever seen.
Holy shit, I can’t help thinking as I stare up at Hot Stuff.
Holy shit, he followed me from the bar.
Holy shit, he’s even hotter up close.
Holy shit, his hand feels way better on my elbow than it has any right to.
I start to pull away, but his grip tightens just a little. Not enough to hurt, by any means, but enough to keep me where I am. Then again, that could be the way his thumb is softly stroking the sensitive skin on the inside of my elbow.
It feels good—surprisingly good—and for a second I feel myself relaxing despite myself. But then I remember who he is and why he’s the last person I should relax with. I narrow my eyes, straighten my spine and say, “I’m fine, thank you.” Frost drips from every word.
One eyebrow goes up at the tone. “You sure? You didn’t drink your drink.”
“Is that really why you followed me? Because you want to rub it in?”
His second eyebrow joins the first. “Exactly what am I rubbing in?”
