Across the room, Harleigh throws her head back, laughing at something the singer said.
My grip tightens slightly on the glass in my hand.
Cabe notices. “You’ve got about ten minutes,” he says casually.
I look at him. “For what?”
He lifts two fingers. “Before one of two things happens.”
I narrow my eyes. “And what are those?”
He gestures toward the dance floor. “Either she brings him over here to join us …” He pauses. “Or you go out there and drag her away from him.”
Waylon shakes his head. “Nah, there’s a third option. Fifty bucks says Shelby handles it.”
Bryce shakes his head. “I’ve got fifty on Charli.”
“You’re right,” Cabe says. “Charli’s the safest bet.”
I blink. “You’re betting on the singer coming over here?”
Waylon chuckles. “We’re betting on the Storm women.”
Like that explains everything.
My eyes drift back to the dance floor despite myself.
Harleigh is still dancing with the singer. But now Shelby has appeared beside them and is wiggling her way between the two of them.
Waylon’s arms shoot up. “That’s my girl.”
She says something to the guy.
Harleigh looks confused.
Shelby gestures toward our table.
And just like that, the guy politely backs away.
Waylon slaps the table. “Told you!”
Bryce groans. “Damn it. Charli was distracted.”
Charli is standing off to the side, taking a shot of something pink with a group of females.
He reaches into his back pocket, pulls a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet, and tosses it at Waylon.
The girls finally drift back from the dance floor, flushed and thirsty.
The table immediately becomes a disaster zone of half-empty water bottles and toppled shot glasses.
Charli waves the server down while Shelby plops down in Waylon’s lap.
Harleigh drops into the chair beside me, breathless and glowing from dancing. A sheen of sweat glistens along the column of her throat and across the swell of her chest.
She tugs off her jacket, clearly overheated, and tosses it over the back of the chair.
Leaving her in a fitted bustier that emphasizes her dangerous curves.
