I'm two seconds from face-planting off this treadmill when—salvation. My phone lights up. The ringtone blares through my earbuds.
Lucy.
Shit. My stomach nosedives as I glance at the screen. Lucy. Calling.
And then I see the time flashing at the top. 6:31 p.m.
"Oh, crap, crap, crap."
La Playa. The bar. I was supposed to meet Lucy and the girls there at six-thirty.
Yeah. I'm officially late.
I fumble to swipe the screen and press the phone to my ear. "Hello?"
"Care, where are you?" Lucy's voice blasts over the line. "We're at La Playa already. Drinks are sweating, girl. You coming or what?"
"Oh, crap—yeah! I'm on my way. Be there soon, promise." I hit the treadmill stop so hard it squeals, hop off, and sling my towel around my neck in one motion. "I just...uh, lost track of time. Got a little too absorbed in my workout."
Hah!my inner sass monster scoffs.Translation: you were too busy ogling Mr. Eight-Pack Glory to notice the time.
"Okay, just checking," Lucy says, a laugh in her voice now. "I was starting to worry—you're never late."
"Yeah, well, first time for everything," I mutter, juggling my water bottle, gym bag, and phone all at once as I hustle for the exit. "I'll be there, uh, fifteen minutes, tops."
I'm so focused on assuring Lucy, I don't even register that I've already walked right past Mr. Eight-Pack Glory. Didn't even glance at him. Zero eye contact.
Which, let's be honest, is probably for the best.
Twenty minutes later—give or take a record-breaking shower and the fastest cab ride of my life—I push through the doors of La Playa.
The place is alive. Neon lights splash color across the walls, bodies pack every corner, and there's this loud hollering somewhere to my left that could only belong to a table of guys who think volume equals charm. Figures.
I weave my way deeper inside, scanning the crowd. There—near the karaoke machine. Lucy, Tammy and Katie, waving like they're trying to land a plane. Taylor Swift'sForever & Alwaysis blaring from the speakers.
Ooh, bless. Tay Tay sets my mood instantly.
I start threading my way through the crowd when—bam.
I collide with something solid. Not solid. Brick wall solid. My head jerks up, and wow. Thewallhas a face. A ridiculously handsome one.
He's tall—like, skyscraper tall. I'm five-eight, not exactly short, but this guy towers over me. Chiseled jawline, sharpcheekbones, that sun-kissed kind of skin that looks permanently golden. His dirty blond hair is cropped close on the sides, longer on top. And of course, he's wearing a Ridgewater U hoodie, sleeves shoved up just enough to flex those forearms.
"Easy there," he says, voice low and playful, lips tilting into a grin that's nothing short of trouble. "If you wanted to get my attention, sweetheart, you could've just asked. No need to throw yourself at me."
And then he winks.
My face stays neutral, but inside? I'm groaning. Seriously? A walking, talking playboy cliché.
"Liam, baby..."
The voice comes from behind him—husky, velvety, the kind of tone that curls through the noise like smoke.
A girl slinks up, glossy lips curved in a knowing smile, red nails trailing down his arm like he's already claimed property. She oozes sex appeal.
Girlfriend. Has to be.
Wow. The nerve. Flirting with strangers when you've gotthathanging off your arm?
