“Then why did you wearthat?”
His lips quirk. “Because I knew you would hate it.” My knees buckle as I let him steer me across the bar, and this time I know I’m not imagining the whispers or the stares that follow.
His hand presses firmly on my shoulder until I find myself on a bench seat. My dress slides up my legs, revealing a distressing amount of skin, and he drops next to me and scoots close. His thigh presses against mine, and when he leans back and stretches his arm out on the railing behind me, goose bumps scatter across my chest.
“Take this,” he says, offering his jacket. A familiar scent tickles my nose.
“No, thank you.”
His eyes dip—briefly—to my chest, and I remember that I’m not wearing a bra. He lays the jacket across his lap, and when a gust of wind reveals yet another inch of thigh, I snatch the jacket and spread it over my legs.
He smothers a laugh. “Everyone, this is Mars Darling. Mars, this is Bryan, Jo, Mario, Durfee, and Liza.”
Jo leans toward me, resting her chin in her hands. “Ihaveto tell you that you’re the reason I’m a writer.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, reaching for an easy joke that gets a laugh every time.
“So, it’s brutal out there for everyone, not just me?” Mario asks as he looks around the table.
“Here we go.” Jo laughs.
“My publicist told me I should be posting five TikToks a week, as if I don’t already have a full-time jobon topof writing,” Liza says, holding her glass up.
“I can’t even tell you how many agents claimed that the market for gay Latino romances is ‘too small,’ ” Mario says with an eye roll.
West points at him. “Fuck.Them.”
“Amen!”
“Let’s see.” Jo turns her glass in her hand. “I was tagged in a review that said my book made them want to gouge their eyeballs out,andI can’t afford health insurance.”
“Hear, hear!” Glasses clink again, and then all eyes shift to me. It’s my turn to join the horror story swap, and Lord knows I have a lot to choose from, one of which is pressed against my side, his eyes fixed on my face.
I lick my lips. If possible, West’s thigh presses harder into mine. “BuzzFeed once called me ‘everything that is wrong with YA fiction,’ ” I say at last. Jo pushes a pitcher of beer toward me. I pour myself a glass.
“Why do we do this again?” Bryan asks.
“Not writing isn’t an option, so I may as well get paid for it,” Jo says.
“Unfortunately, it’s the only thing I’m good at,” Mario says with a laugh.
I open my mouth to commiserate, but the words stick in my throat as West reaches across me to grab a bowl of pretzels from the other end of the table, his muscles flexing under his too-tight Fox merch. The woodsy scent from earlier overwhelms me, and I feel an antsy, aching need and press mythighs together to make it stop. When West settles back into his seat, his foot rests against mine under the table. I kick him to let him know that I’mme, not a piece of furniture. His neutral expression doesn’t waver as he quickly shifts away.
The table splits into several side conversations. I glance sideways as West pops a pretzel into his mouth and chews slowly. I watch him lick the salt and dust off his fingers. “Something to say, Darling?” he finally asks, turning to catch me staring at him.
A million things run through my head.I hate you.I hate your shirt. It looks terrible on you. I never even think about you anymore. I want to ruin your life.
With a heavy sigh, I tilt my face up to the darkening sky. “Daphne told me not to let you get in my head.” I’m quickly inching my way into tipsy. I wouldn’t have let that slip otherwise.
“And? How’s that working out for you?” he asks on a quiet breath.
“Not great so far, but I never lose the capacity for hope.”
West barely manages to conceal his amusement. Annoyed with both him and myself, I lean back until my shoulder blades brush his arm, and I realize immediately that I’ve made a capital-M Mistake. I bolt upright. “Sorry! I didn’t—I wouldn’t—that was an accident!”
“You’re fine.” Twin flickers of surprise and confusion replace his previous delight.
I pour myself another drink.
