Page 33 of Spring Break Fling

HANNAH

Isat at the bar, swirling my glass of chardonnay while lost in thought. The bar was quiet, mostly couples on dates or the occasional person scrolling on their phone. Me? I was somewhere between plotting world domination and sulking over the fact that Nikko had managed to make me both furious and curious at the same time.

I wanted my tattoo fixed. I didn’t want to date the guy.

Liar.

My inner voice was having none of my self-denial tonight. It knew me better than I liked to admit. Nikko’s little stunt had been brazen, and as much as I hated to admit it, it had thrown me off my game. What annoyed me most was that part of me admired his audacity.

Sighing, I took another sip of my wine. The smooth liquid slid down my throat and provided a momentary respite from my swirling thoughts. He had offered to fix the tattoo, but at what cost? Dates with him? That smug grin as he suggested it kept replaying in my mind, taunting me.

Did he mean dinner and a movie or sex at his place? Did I care?

Uh oh, now I was negotiating with myself. It was a slippery slope, and I knew it. My thumb toyed with the edge of the wine glass, tracing the rim in absent-minded circles.

“He’s playing you,” I muttered under my breath, as if acknowledging it out loud would help dispel the ridiculous proposition. Yet, there was a tantalizing thrill attached to the idea—partly because I knew it was wrong, partly because… well, Nikko wasn’t just anybody.

“He’s trouble,” I whispered.

That was what drew me to him initially, the hint of danger. He was so unlike anyone I would ever normally date. I would never dare to get the attention of a man like him. He was way out of my league. We were like yin and yang. He was leather and motorcycles and fast living. I was nine-to-five and buttoned up.

I was going to drive myself crazy. I picked up my phone and stared at my recent calls. Out of my three friends, I knew who to call. That was the benefit of having four of us in our little group. We each brought something different to the table. If I had a logical problem, I called Rachel. If I was having a moral issue, like should I borrow an idea and put my own spin on it, I called Maddie. Tara was the one I called when I wanted to hear advice that fed my very secret and tiny little wild side.

When Tara answered my call, I skipped the pleasantries. “I need help,” I blurted out.

“What kind of help? Are we talking burying-a-body help or what-should-I-eat help?”

“Neither. Nikko. Although the first might be on the table. I haven’t decided.”

There was a pause, followed by a low, knowing chuckle. “Oh, this should be good. Spill.”

I launched into the story of how I stormed into the tattoo shop, demanded he fix his little artistic addition, and somehow walked out having agreed to go on dates with him.

Tara’s laugh echoed through the phone, earning me a few looks from others. “Oh, you’re in trouble.”

“That’s why I called.” I took a long sip of wine. “What do I do?”

“First off, stop letting him take the lead. He’s one of those guys who thinks he’s got the upper hand because he’s hot and cocky and… good in bed.”

I choked on my wine. “Tara!”

“Don’t ‘Tara’ me,” she said. “You know I’m right. But that’s not the point. The point is you need to Uno reverse this situation on him.”

I frowned, intrigued despite myself. “What do you mean?”

Her laugh this time was pure strategy. “Make him fall for you first. Beat him at his own game.”

A tingle of excitement shot through me. “And how do I do that?”

“You asked the right person,” Tara replied with so much confidence I half expected her to switch to video chat and bust out a PowerPoint presentation. “You’ve got to keep him guessing. He thinks he knows you—corporate, structured, predictable. Show him something else entirely. Give him just enough to keep him interested, but never fully reveal your hand.”

I grabbed my notebook from my bag and flipped past the marketing pitch I was working on to a blank page. “Go on.”

Tara launched into a breakdown so detailed it could’ve been a masterclass in psychological manipulation.

“Step one, be unpredictable,” she said. “Cancel plans last minute, then surprise him by showing up somewhere unexpected. Make him work to figure you out. Do not be available.”

I nodded, furiously scribbling notes. “Step two?”