She glanced at them. “Actually,” she said, softly, “those are the worst ones.”
“They look the best,” I said, really trying not to slur. “They’re the prettiest.” Was it obvious I was wasted?
Yeah, idiot. It’s fucking obvious.
“That’s why they’re the worst,” she informed me. “They’ll be dead tomorrow.” Her gaze drifted over my face, her eyes snagging on my lips. “The prettiest ones are always the worst…”
Huh?
I licked my lip. Couldn’t really help it when she looked at my mouth like that.
Were we still talking about flowers?
My brain was a drunken blank as I stared at her eyes.
She glanced at the Hummer again, just as the door opened and music throbbed out—along with a chorus of assholes, shouting and laughing. The song was that classic masterpiece, “Me So Horny,” because I’d obviously done something truly terrible in a former life and now it was coming back to fuck me over.
Maybe I did believe in karma.
This time when I glanced over my shoulder, a pair of strappy high heels and shapely bare legs appeared as my other ex-girlfriend, Summer, started climbing out of the limo.
Fuckingno.
Every instinct I had—even with all the booze in my system—told me that a bunch of obnoxiously drunk hot chicks, even more obnoxiously drunk rock stars, oh, and the hulking bikers, were gonna scare dream girl away.
When I turned back to her again, she was heading into the store with her roses. She paused to look back at me for a split second and say, “I’m not who you think I am.”
Huh, again?
I still couldn’t decipher that look on her face.
Too. Drunk.
Then she disappeared into the store.
My friends piled in around me, seeking shelter under the tiny awning as they lit up. I smelled weed and booze. I saw their faces, kind of, but I couldn’t hear them. I just stood there in the drizzling rain, one-syllabling my way through whatever drunken conversation we were having.
I kept staring at the storefront, waiting for her to re-emerge. Trying to remember what I needed to say to her, and wondering if I could navigate the sidewalk to intercept her without falling on my face.
Because I definitely had to talk to her.
I’d already missed my chance with her once. I wasn’t making that mistake again.
For one thing, lightning didn’t strike three times, or something. Which meant this chance was definitely my last chance.
For a second thing, fucking her, soon, was now top priority. Way higher priority than Amber’s drunken scavenger hunt thing.
Three, where the fuck did she go, and what was taking so long?
And fourth, why was I so damn drunk every time I met her?
I wavered as someone slapped me on the shoulder.
Connor. Dylan’s biker bodyguard, the sober son-of-a-bitch, grinned down at me. “You alright, brother?” I tried to focus on his face—bad idea. He was too close, his teeth too bright, and everything started swimming around his blond head in a halo of garish light.
Not good.
I blinked and looked away—into the store, but fuck if I could see anything. The aisles were crammed together and there were piles of crazy shit—dried tentacles?—all over the place.
