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CHAPTER ONE
“REMIND ME AGAIN HOWyou talked me into this.” I glare at my friend, Skyla, not sure if she can hear me over the loud thump of the music.
She grins, leaning in close, her cherry red lips nearly grazing my ear.
“Because you love me.” She kisses my cheek. “Now get your ass off of that stool and dance with us.” She gestures in the vicinity of where the other girls are, circled together on the dance floor.
“That’s a hard pass.” I lift my glass and take a small sip from the straw, the sweetness of the drink overwhelmed by the sting of alcohol.
“Oh come on,” she whines. “Why did you come if you’re gonna sit here like a stump all night?”
“Because it’s your birthday.” I give her a cheeky grin.
“And as the birthday girl, I request that you get your cute little butt out on that dance floor.” She pouts, her bottom lip jutted out, before adding, “Please. For me?” She bats her long lashes.
I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes.
I love Skyla. I do. And there’s not much I wouldn’t do for her. She’s my oldest friend, after all. Despite the fact that we’re polar opposites, we’ve been thick as thieves since middle school. But that also means she knows this isn’t my scene and the fact that I’m even here should be considered a win.
“You go dance. I’m perfectly happy right here.”
She tosses her highlighted blonde hair over one shoulder and gives me a pointed look. I glance past her, not missing the attention she’s garnered from a nearby group of college-aged guys.
Skyla is gorgeous. She knows it. And so does everyone else. I’m used to this reaction from guys in her presence. Always staring. Always hoping for a chance to snag her attention. It’s been the story of our lives ever since adolescence.
I guess that’s what happens when you look like an airbrushed swimsuit model.
Not that I would know.
When I said we’re polar opposites, I meant that in every sense of the word.
Where she’s tall, slender, and perfect in every way possible, I am not. I’m built more like a fourteen-year-old. Short and petite, and very little curves to speak of, topped with a mess of thick dark hair that hangs halfway down my back and never seems to do what I want it to.
It used to bother me having a friend so obviously gorgeous. But as I got older, I realized I like myself just how I am. Though I’d be lying if I said that I don’t get mildly jealous when every cute guy we come across prefers to give his attention to Skyla.
She studies me for a long moment, her deep green eyes locked on mine. I can tell she’s trying to decide if she should push the issue or accept defeat and walk away.
After a moment, she sighs. “Party pooper.” She stomps her foot dramatically, before spinning and heading back onto the dance floor, her short red dress swaying side to side as she does.
I grumble under my breath before turning my attention back to the line of televisions mounted above the bar, each one playing the same baseball game with no sound. Finishing off the remainder of my drink, I push my empty to the edge of the bar, contemplating my early escape.
I know what the girls will say...it’s what they always say. That I’m lame or boring, or don’t know how to have fun. None of which is true. I can cut loose with the best of them. But this? I glance around the crowded bar. This is not my idea of a good time. Music so loud you can barely hear yourself think. Guys who don’t know how to keep their hands to themselves. And girls wearing too little clothing and dancing like they belong on a stripper stage. I don’t see the allure.
I’m more of a wine, pizza, and movie night kind of girl. I like things simple. Low key. I wouldn’t say I’m shy. I’m quite the opposite, actually. But I know what I like and what I don’t. I know I’m in the minority of girls my age, but I don’t care.
I’m fine being a little different. It’s never stopped me from getting along with people. I don’t need to conform to meet people or meet any specific assumptions about what I should be. I make friends easily and lead a pretty drama free life, unless you make me mad, then all bets are off. My mom says I get my temper from my father. Not that I would know. He died in a fire when I was two, erasing his life as well as every proof of his existence. My mom was hardly able to get me out safely. So now, the only memories I have are second hand stories told to me by my mom.
I start making a list of all the excuses I could use to leave early.
I have to work an early shift at the restaurant tomorrow, but that won’t work because Skyla is also a waitress there. Even if I said I was going in early for food prep, all she’d have to do is ask the head chef when she came in and she’d know I’d lied.
Then again, I alwayscouldgo in early. Might win me some bonus points with Todd, and lord knows I need them. I need to get on the boss’ good side. I need a raise. I need more freedom in the kitchen than working the line. I need to experience what it’s like to run an actual kitchen, so that one day when I open my own restaurant, I’ll know exactly what it takes. And since he’s in charge of whether or not I get that experience, maybe a little ass kissing wouldn’t hurt.
Then again, do I really want to go into work early when I don’t have to?
God, this was so much easier when I was in school. I could say I had a class or something I needed to study for. Not that I really ever studied. Culinary School came as natural to me as breathing. Even still, it would have been a believable excuse to give if I hadn’t graduated two months ago.
Think, Mila. Think.
