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“Yeah, as if straight men really want our freaking inner goddesses empowered,” I snigger, already slightly tipsy from my double vodka.
“He really sounds like he means it, though,” says Fran… but I don’t respond.
I can’t.
For as I take in Rami’s wry grin, my hands go clammy and my mouth dries as my eyes slip to the left and the dark figure behind her, his eyes flaring in the dim light as he watches me.
My lips part as I see him, sitting two booths down, one friend in front of him and one to his right.
Our eyes lock onto each other amidst the chatter and music, neither of us smiling, the tension wracking my body as palpable as I remember it being those weeks ago, only this time… he looks kind of angry, and not in the way that leaves room for glimmers of amusement.
Greyson.
Rami and Fran slamming their glasses down onto the table at the same time has the bubble we’re in splintering into pieces and I jump, my eyes darting to their empty glasses.
“Right, your turn!” barks Fran to me.
I swallow. “I… I haven’t finished yet.”
“Well, drink up, woman. If we’re disrespecting Arlo’s rules, we may as well go all out.”
“Stop,” I manage breathlessly, trying to smile as I pull my gaze from Grey and down the rest of my glass, deciding I’m definitely taking a taxi home and not my bike. I’ll pick that up tomorrow. “Same?” I ask, my vision hazy, my movements slow.
“Same,” my friends sing in unison as I reach into the back pocket of my long flowy cerulean skirt to check that I still have a couple of twenty-dollar bills left.
“Oh, and get us some chips,” adds Rami.
Grabbing our three empty glasses, I head to the bar, placing them there and waiting as the barman tends to some patrons at the far end, my body stiff as I try to breathe.
It’s must only be fifteen or so seconds before I see an arm place itself onto the bar next to me, thick, lean, dense and muscular, his skin tanned beneath the sleeves of a gray T-shirt.
Although I haven’t looked, I know from the height and the shock of dark hair I see out of my peripheral vision who it is.
Frankly, I didn’t need to even see that. I feel it in every fiber of my body, my hyperawareness of his dense body frankly ridiculous at this point.
And I knew when taking every faltering and woozy step towards the bar that he’d come.
So, why can’t I look?
Jesus, Indie, get a fucking hold of yourself.
Why are you being such a freaking weirdo about this?
As his head turns in my direction, my heart begins to careen, and my mouth suddenly feels as though I’ve spent the day sucking on the sand I was lying on.
Seeing as I can’t seem to control my respiration anyway, I decide to look at him, not usually a gargantuan feat, but something about making eye contact with this man I kind of convinced myself I’d dreamed up suddenly feels like climbing the north face of the Eiger.
Fuck…
In the low light, his eyes gleam as he takes me in, making blood beeline its way to my cheeks which begin to burn.
Just freaking fabulous.
Deciding that the only way I’m going to make it to the end of the week with my chastity vow and any sense of dignity or self-respect intact, I decide to default to climbing onto my sassyhorse.
A major deflection, yeah, but I’m really running out of ideas on how to handle Greyson Everitt, seeing as I’m fairly sure the effect he has on me is now so palpable that it can be seen from the other side of the island.
“What—”
