“Didn’t take you for the cruise type,” I shout over the music. His head turns to me as he flashes me a devilish smirk.
“I’m not, but the idea of you in a tiny bikini, sipping cocktails for a week straight might change my mind.”
My mouth drops as I gape at him. Who's this flirty man, and what has he done with the grumpy Jett Riggsby I’m falling in love with again?
“Or I could bid on lawn care services.”
“You live on a farm with cows.”
He shrugs. “I’m not letting cows mow my yard, crazy.”
“I think the cruise sounds better.”
“You’re imagining me shirtless, aren’t you?”
“Now, I am,” I mumble.
“What was that?” he asks, but I see the knowing smirk on his face.
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
Turning back to the jersey, I sign my name and place a bid on the bid sheet.
“I can get you one for free.”
I shrug. “It’s for charity.”
“Whatever you say, Drummond.”
I walk closer toward him, squeezing his forearm. “I’m going to grab drinks. Want another beer?”
He nods, and I move across the room to the little bar in the corner. I spot Saylor immediately. Her bright pink hair sets her apart from the crowd. As I step closer, I notice Levi next to her. Saylor’s leaning in a little too close with someone who’s supposed to be her brother’s best friend, and he’s not moving away. She’s all bright eyes with a wicked smile, twirling her strawlike she knows exactly what she’s doing. Like a creep, I observe the two for a moment while I wait in line.
“What’s it going to take for you to dance with me?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t dance.”
“C’mon,” she murmurs, leaning closer. “You deserve to have some fun, Levi.”
“I’m having fun.”
Saylor rolls her eyes, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “More fun…with me.”
“You’re trouble, Little Riggsby.”
Her nose scrunches and mine does too. Little Riggsby is such a harsh way of reminding her who she is. But I see it. The way he watches her—amused, cautious, a little curious.
“I’m the best kind of trouble, Welles.”
Get him, Saylor.
He huffs a laugh, but doesn’t lean away. “You’re such a brat.”
“You have no idea,” she purrs, slipping the straw between her lips in an overly sexual manner. I avert my gaze because, wow, Saylor is trouble, and she knows exactly what she’s doing. I tuck away the interaction for later.
“What can I get you?” the volunteer bartender asks when it’s my turn to order.
“Two beers, please.”
