My stomach plummets to the floor I was just hovering above. “Yeah, it’s time to go,” I tell Tatum, my hand pressing to my belly in an attempt to keep myself together. My hand is grabbed, and I’m tugged after her as she calls, “Ciao, darlings.”
I turn back to catch Mr . . . Dreamy, Smug, Sexy, Pity-er of Drunk Girls watching me. I’m left with two options to make an escape without further incident. I could blame the craziness on a head injury, or I could just leave. “So . . . thanks,” I say awkwardly as I back toward the door. Yes. Choosing the latter.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” His voice carries over the lively crowd.
I dust the dirt off my ass. “I’m fine. Guess I’m not a tequila girl.”
“You drank rum,” he replies with a lopsided smile that could sweep me off my feet again if I’m not careful.
“Rum. Tequila. Same difference.” I wave off the idea because it doesn’t really matter. “I’m not good with liquor.” That should settle it, but I make the mistake of daring to look into his eyes again. The five feet between us virtually disappears, and mentally, I’m back in his arms again, reading the prose that makes up his features. It would take me days to interpret, capturing not only his thoughts but a history that’s worn in the light lines. He makes it hard to look away.
Stepping forward, he raises his hand and then lowers it to his side again as conflict invades his expression. “You sure you’re okay? You might have a concussion.”
I can’t say I’m not touched by his concern. Grinning, I ask, “Does a concussion involve my heart?”
“What’s happening with your heart?”
“It’s beating like crazy.”
Smiles are exchanged. “I think you’re experiencing something else, but if you’d like me to call an ambulance—”
“Nope,” Tatum cuts in, yanking me toward the door again, and laughs. “He’s cute, but we don’t want to miss the yacht.” She whips the straw hat off me and tosses it to him.
I twist to look back. “Thanks for the lift. Literally.”
“Anytime,” he says with his eyes set on mine. When he shoves his hands in his pockets, he looks like he’s posing for a Ralph Lauren ad. Tan. Rugged good looks. Tall. Those dreamy eyes and a grin that call me back to him. But life isn’t a dream. It’s time to return to reality.
Goodbye, dream man. It was nice hanging with . . . onto you.
2
Nick Christiansen
Two days without the worries of late-night study groups, working my ass off interning at a law firm, and the constant micromanagement of my dad. At twenty-five, I’ve been ready to break out from under his thumb for a long time now.
He just hasn’t received the memo that I’m not a kid anymore.
A last-minute invitation for a quick getaway before graduation from Stanford Law School and the pressures of my family brought me here. That’s all this was supposed to be. A night of hanging with my best friend, a day of kicking back around the resort pool, and then barhopping to celebrate my final year of school behind me, today should have been much the same.
So, what just happened?
I know. Grinning as I recall how one minute, I was finishing my beer to the sound of spinning keys around my best friend’s finger, and the next, chanting was filling my ears. “Shot. Shot. Shot.”
I saw him first, an asshole ready to take advantage of an opportunity. The opportunity—a certain blonde in a loose white shirt, wide open between the top two buttons. Cutoffs reveal a lot of leg—shapely tan thighs—and a brown leather belt hangs around her waist more for decoration than for a purpose. Her sandals, only noticeable if you’re looking for them, don’t add any height. Bracelets of silver and gold with touches of turquoise covered her wrists, and the bar’s raggedy shot hat had just been placed on her head. Clearly, I spent more than a few seconds taking her in without regret.
She was a vision in any state—from New York to California, drunk or sober—but it wasn’t her outfit that had me acting on instinct and running into others to get to her. It was the asshole bragging about fucking her before she realized what hit her. Sure, I could have snapped back that no one would even know he was fucking her since he has a minuscule dick. But the hard