Miles does not even look at her. He exhales smoke, eyes locked on the floor and ignores her.
The silence stretches long enough that even Bella, who thrives on attention, falters. She turns back to me, brows raised. “Who the hell pissed in his beer?”
I bark out a laugh, shaking my head as I lean over the counter. “Don’t worry about him, baby. He’s in one of his moods.” I brush my lips against hers in a quick kiss, playful enough to make her giggle. “And you’re being greedy. Didn’t I just get you off? I’ll bring the shots over in a minute.”
She rolls her eyes, but the sparkle is back, and she winks as she scoops up her hair. “Fine. Don’t take too long.” Then she spins on her heel and struts back toward the girls, her skirt flashing thigh with every step.
I finish pouring and reach for a clean glass, sliding it across to Miles. “Here.”
He lifts his head, just barely, and takes it. No words. No thanks. Just tilts it back and downs it in one go, the amber catching the light before it disappears.
I study him for a beat. His jaw works, muscle tight, but he does not say a thing. Whatever storm is brewing inside him, he is not letting me in.
So I slap the counter lightly and grin. “I’ll be right back.”
The tray of shots is heavy in my hands as I lift it, weaving my way through the crowd. Voices overlap in drunken laughter, music rising louder as the girls squeal at something by the jukebox. When I reach them, the cheerleaders cheer like I just delivered salvation itself.
“Finally,” Bella says, grabbing one before I even set the tray down. “What took you so long?”
“Perfection takes time,” I shoot back, setting the tray on the table with a flourish.
They giggle, gathering around, each girl plucking a glass, lime wedges and salt at the ready. Their perfume mixes in the air—sweet, floral, cloying.
But the blonde isn’t laughing like the others. Not squealing or batting her lashes. She is quiet, perched on the edge of her stool, her green eyes glinting in the dim light. Her dress is short, red, clinging to her, but she wears it with sneakers, casual, almost defiant. She takes the shot with steady hands, and when she lifts the lemon wedge to her mouth, my eyes catch on her lips.
Christ.
Soft. Plush. The kind of lips a man imagines wrapped around him when he is alone in the dark. She bites down on the lemon, and I swear to God my throat goes dry.
I should not be looking. I should be thinking about Bella, about the tray, about literally anything else. But Miles’s voice is still in my head, a warning I do not understand.
Stay away.
Which only makes me want to know more.
Why the hell do I feel this innate pull toward her, like gravity itself has shifted? I do not even know her name, but I want to. I want to know why she looked like she had been crying, why she is sitting here with these girls like she belongs, when everything about her screams she does not.
One of the girls shoves a shot into my hand, laughing. “Drink with us, Jamie!”
Bella cheers, already licking salt off her wrist. “Yes! Drink, drink, drink!”
I grin, because I am not the kind of man who says no when the crowd is chanting his name. I tip the glass back, the tequila burning hot down my throat, and the girls shriek like I just scored the winning goal.
But even as they crowd around me, even as Bella throws her arm over my shoulder and plants a kiss against my cheek, my eyes flick back.
To her.
She is watching me now, expression unreadable, lips still glistening with lemon juice. When our eyes meet, something sharp twists in my chest. Something I don’t have words for.
I look away first.
If I keep staring, I am going to do something stupid.
After another round, I set the tray down, laugh off Bella’s demand for me to stay, and make my way back to the bar. My pulse is too fast, my head buzzing, not from the tequila but from her. From the fact that I cannot shake the image of her lips, the heat in her eyes, the way she looked at me like she could see straight through the cocky grin I always wear.
I slip back behind the counter, grabbing another rag, busying myself with the glasses because I need my hands moving, need something to do before I give myself away.
Miles is still smoking, his silence heavy, the ashtray filling by the minute. He does not look at me, and I do not look at him.
