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I blew out a breath. “I’m living again. I... I...” Glancing frantically around the place, I paused on the first guy I spotted. “I’m going to go talk to him.”
Zoey glanced over and winced. “Him? Are you sure...?”
I gave a very decisive nod. “I’m positive.”
“Who is he?” Quinn wondered, eyeing the guy censoriously. He was another friend of my brother’s and was probably guessing how many times Noel would kill the guy for even talking to me.
I was thinking Noel had way too many freaking friends.
“No clue,” I said, not caring who he was at all. “How about I go ask him.”
To be on the safe side, I snatched up the piña colada Blaze had abandoned at our table for a little liquid courage and gulped it.
Slamming the empty glass down, I let out a refreshed breath. “Please excuse me while I get my groove on.” Standing up, I threw a flirty little wave at Zoey and Quinn—or Zwinn, as I was going to call them henceforth—and I turned to make my way toward Mr. Lucky, whoever he was.
Except I couldn’t spot him anywhere. Crap. Where had he gone? Didn’t he know he was a possible candidate for clearing the cobwebs from my vagina? My own personal cobweb duster.
“Um...” Zoey cleared her throat before she helpfully offered, “He went that way.”
I jerked around to scowl at her. Then I pointed at Quinn. “Stop laughing. My groove’s been on an extended vacation.”
He immediately pursed his lips tight, holding in a grin. I narrowed my eyes and waited a tick to make sure another laugh didn’t slip out. Then I glanced at Zoey. She pointed me in the right direction. I nodded my thanks and turned that way, grateful when I spotted my possibly first one-night-stand man straight ahead.
I closed in on my target, a determined woman on a mission. I was going to get my life and my girl power back tonight if it was the last thing I did. Fuck Sander Scotini and what he’d turned me into. And fuck Oren Tenning for rejecting me. I wasn’t going to let those assholes get me down.
The stranger’s back was to me as he talked to two other guys. I’m not sure why I’d singled him out. Maybe because he was the antithesis of Oren. Shorter, pale-headed, not at all sporty-looking in a polo shirt and dark gray pleated slacks. I doubted Oren even owned a pair of slacks.
With one last glance back at Zwinn, I sent them a “watch this shit” grin and plowed ahead until I rammed into my target’s back, making him lurch forward and dump the lager he was holding all over the front of his pretty yellow polo shirt.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.” Forcing myself not to snicker in triumph, I grabbed up a handful of napkins from the table next to us. “Are you okay? I can’t believe I did that.” Or that I’d nailed him so perfectly.
He turned to me slowly, his face molted with rage, only for his expression to clear when he saw me. I batted my lashes and cooed out my sympathy as I took in his soaked shirt. “Oh, you poor thing. Let me get that for you.” I dabbed at his chest a few times—not a bad chest, but not the best either—before I bent in front of him to sop up the spilled beer on the floor by his feet. Once I had the floor reasonably dry, I stayed kneeling but lifted my face to meet his gaze.
“Did I get everything?” I’m not sure if it was how close my face was to his junk, the breathiness in my voice, or the complete innocence I tried to blink into my eyes, but the guy fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.
“Uh...” His attention darted from my face, to the front of his pants, and then back to my face as I rose back to my full height.
“Let me buy you another drink.” He didn’t seem to notice I wasn’t wearing a legal-to-drink wristband like he was, meaning I wasn’t able to buy him shit, unless it was plain soda. If he had, he might’ve known how severely I was tricking my way into a meet-cute.
Instead, he stepped right into my trap. He lifted his hand to stop me from turning toward the bar. “No, that’s okay. How about I get you a drink instead?”
“Really?” Wow, this was almost too easy. “That’d be great. Thanks.” I glanced surreptitiously toward the bar as I tucked a long piece of bangs out of my face.
My stomach swarmed with nerves. Most of the crowd had gathered around the stage as Asher and his band began to set up their instruments, which left the bar area less congested. I could see Noel from where I stood as he served someone a bottled beer. Mason Lowe was behind the bar with him, but neither of them noticed me, so I took a small step to the side to hide myself a little better and kept smiling at Mr. Mission Accomplished.
“I’m Caroline,” I called over the noise as I held out my hand.
“Trey,” he answered, shaking with me and tugging me just a little closer to him before he let go.
Asher chose that moment to interrupt us. He turned on his mike and introduced the band, Non-Castrato. The crowd grew rowdy until the drummer counted off the first song and all the guitars started in. When people realized they were playing an original, something Asher had written called “Slingshot,” the female fans began to scream.
Then Asher leaned in to sing, and the female fans promptly shut up so they could hear him. I grinned at how captivated he could hold an audience.
Trey nudged me in the arm to get my attention. “Have you heard them before?”
I could’ve told him any number of things—how well I knew Asher, that I owned their album and had all their songs memorized, that I came to watch Non-Castrato play just about every Friday. But I kind of wanted to be a little more mysterious and illusive.
“Oh...a couple times,” I answered, smiling evasively.
