Then someone else shouted, “Damn, Travers!”
Laughter scattered around the fire.
The sound snapped reality back into place.
We were outside.
On a beach.
At a party.
In front of people.
I shoved lightly at Drew’s chest, breathless and hot all over. “Drew.”
He lifted his head.
His eyes were dark. Wild. Focused completely on me.
For a second, he did not look like he remembered there was a crowd either.
Then his mouth curved.
Slow.
Dangerous.
He pulled back just enough to let me breathe, but not enough to let me go. His hands stayed on my hips, thumbs pressinglightly into the jersey like he liked seeing his number on me almost as much as he liked touching me in it.
“Think we convinced them?” he asked.
My brain was still trying to reassemble itself.
“Convinced who?”
He nodded toward the bonfire without looking away from me. “Anyone wondering if this was fake.”
My pulse stumbled.
Fake.
Right.
The word came back like cold water.
I looked over his shoulder. A few people were absolutely watching. Jace had both hands raised like he’d just witnessed a religious event. Dante looked amused and vaguely pained. Tristan stood rigid near the other fire, face unreadable. Stella had her arms crossed and one brow raised like she was already bored with men again.
Drew’s thumb moved once over my hip.
I looked back at him.
There was humor in his face, yes.
Swagger.
Trouble.
But beneath it, something else had flickered at the word fake.
