“To drop off my bag,” he announces as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “We’ve got twenty-four hours, Pres. Don’t want to waste it!”
Chapter Sixteen
HOLLIS
“So you never explained to me how you became a manager of a nightclub,” Pres says next to me as we wait for the waitress to come with our drink refills.
We’ve had the best day. We ate breakfast at the Paris Hotel, took cheesy photos in front of the Fountains of Bellagio, and even did the zipline on Fremont Street.
Spending time with her like this again? It feels just as natural and easy as our phone conversations. We’ve talked about everything, from reminiscing about high school to the many years that followed. She told me about her early days at Creeds and the roommate struggles she faced in her early twenties.
One subject that doesn’t come up is Jace.
I try not to dwell on what that means.
After a quick trip back to the hotel to change our clothes, we’re starting the night off at a trendy bar down the street from our hotel.
“I was a bartender,” I confess, trying to keep my eyes from wandering south. Having her in front of me in that sequined gold dress with the plunging neckline is proving to be a huge distraction.
Her jaw drops. “You? A bartender?”
“Is that so hard to believe?” I smile. “You’re a bartender!”
“Yeah, but I’m a hell of a lot nicer than you are.”
I scoff, pretending to be offended. “I’m nice.”
She leans forward, and I try not to groan when the familiar scent of vanilla hits my nostrils. Fucking hell. “You’re nice to the people you like. You’re just standoffish with everyone else. It’s why we would always end up hanging out at parties while Hendrix talked to literally everyone.”
It’s one of the reasons why we became so close in the first place. Pres had a calmness to her that I gravitated toward. The teenage boy in me craved the normalcy that Hendrix’s friendship gave, but I think I formed a deeper connection to Pres in those quiet hours on the beach.
“I’m nice to you,” I counter.
Her eyes sparkle with amusement. “That’s because you like me.”
“Yeah.” I smirk, watching her lips curve upward. “I do.”
Even in the low light of the bar, I can see her blushing. I like being the reason for all that color on her cheeks. The waitress chooses that moment to bring us our refills—a whiskey sour for me and a martini for her.
We offer our thanks before she walks away, and as Pres reaches for her glass at the same time I do, our fingers brush. It’s not the first time we’ve touched today—sometimes by accident, other times on purpose. But right now, this small bit of contact—under the dim lights, with the whiskey warming my blood—feels electric.
Neither of us is quick to pull away.
I can’t get over how gorgeous she is, from those mesmerizing blue eyes to the high cheekbones and scattering of freckles. She’s everything I remember.
And more.
Like me, she’s changed since high school. Back then, she thought she was too tall and gangly. I thought she was perfect.
I still do.
Adult Presley’s body is a work of art—tight and curvy in all the right places. Her hair is longer, lighter, with wisps of honey and sand woven in. There are also other things I notice too, like the tiny tattoo behind her ear that I can’t stop looking at. She has her last name on the inside of her forearm, like the rest of her family, in swirly, delicate script, but it’s the other one that has me so intrigued.
It’s stars—a cluster of tiny stars—and I can’t help but wonder what it means.
I watch as Pres takes a sip of her drink. Her throat bobs as the cool liquid slides down. Finally, she says, “So I guess what I should have asked was how did the introvert stumble into bartending?”
I smile. I’ve never really labeled myself an introvert, but I suppose it fits. I don’t like crowds, and I always hated parties in high school. Even at the club, I tend to stay in my office while Jonas handles the front, greeting guests and VIPs.
