“Intense. Like, he does this jaw thing when he’s thinking—”
“Oh my God, you’re so gone,” Ivy says.
“Can we stop—”
“You’re the one going on and on.”
“Because you got me drunk!”
“Because you needed to admit you want to—”
“HEY.” Dean’s voice cuts through our chaos.
We all freeze, even CeCe, with a glass halfway to her lips.
He’s standing at the end of our booth, beer in one hand, looking amused and annoyed and—
Crap. His sleeves are rolled up.
I stare at the table, anything to avoid looking at those strong, veiny forearms.
“Mason’s about to do something stupid with darts,” he says. “Thought you’d want to watch.”
“We’re busy,” Ivy says.
“Doing what?”
“Girl stuff,” Gloria offers.
“Which involves yelling about my forearms?”
I want to die. I want the sticky floor to open up and swallow me whole.
“No one was yelling about—” I start.
“The whole bar heard you.”
“That’s CeCe’s fault.”
“Hey!” CeCe protests.
Dean’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Come on. He’s drunk enough to attempt trick shots.”
“In a second,” Ivy says.
He looks at me. Does the intense thing. “You good?”
“Peachy.”
“She’s drunk,” CeCe announces.
“I noticed.” He’s still looking at me. “Water?”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure you are.” He heads to the bar, presumably to order a water I didn’t ask for.
“Holy shit,” CeCe whispers. “The tension.”
