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1
Sierra
Age Eighteen
“Show me your ID.”
I’m startled by the edgy voice, and my path is blocked when a powerful body stands in front of me.
Oh shit.
On my What Could Go Wronglist, this is at the top.
I shift to the right, planning to make a run for it, but he cuts me off.
Please don’t be him.
If it’s him, I’ll die of embarrassment right here at his feet. At least the last person I’ll see before meeting death is good eye candy.
My heartbeat rages out of control while I nervously lift my gaze. I gulp when my eyes set on a face darkened with frustration.
If this is a dream, it’s not how I imagined one starring him would go.
It was more along the lines of me seducing him. Kissing. Us naked.
We’ve never crossed paths, but I know whoheis.
Maliki Bridges, the owner of the Down Home Pub, the bar my eighteen-year-old ass snuck into.
A wave of light-headedness hits me—not from the liquor, but his presence.
I’m going to kill Ellie.
This was all her genius idea.
“We’ll totally be fine, chicken,” she insisted while we sipped wine coolers in her parents’ basement. “Leo said as long as we stay in the corner with his friends, we’re as good as gold.”
There wasn’t much else to do in our small town of Blue Beech, Iowa, so I stupidly changed clothes, tugged on a black baseball cap, and put on a fresh coat of red lipstick—all attempts at looking old enough to hang out in a bar.
Our plan was running smoothly. The guys ordered our drinks from the bar and carried them to us. It was all fun and games until I needed a restroom break.
And that’s what brought me here—scrunched in a narrow, dimly lit hallway with a hot and very pissed off man.
Maliki crosses his arms and taps his foot. “I’m waiting.”
I start to respond but shut my mouth at the realization that I’m holding a drink.
“Shit,” I hiss under my breath—although it comes out louder than what I intended.
I shove the glass behind my back, and his glare hardens, as if I were a child.
Okay, or the teenager I am.
The clamor of other bar patrons fades away, and my heart races as I give myself an internal pep talk. I blow out a long breath and give him my signatureI’m innocentsmile—myget out of jailsmirk, as Ellie calls it. It carries a high success rate of my parents’ cluelessness to me doing shit like this.
I dramatically gasp, my open hand flying to my chest. “Oh my God! I must’ve forgotten it. I swear, with the four kiddos at home, I always forget something.”
The irritation on his face doesn’t falter.
