‘That’s the distance to the next latte.’
‘Well, don’t let me stop you.’
Blue Eyes smirks.‘You’re a car crash in heels.Hard to look away.Loud.Probably expensive.’
I narrow my eyes.‘I’ve seen parking meters flirt more smoothly than you.’
His mouth twitches.He’s trying not to smile, which only makes it worse.‘I’m not flirting,’ he says casually.
‘No?You sure?Because you keep talking to me.And unless you’re collecting insults for a rural stand-up routine, I’m struggling to understand why.’
He shrugs as if our whole interaction is a minor inconvenience instead of the highlight of his day.‘Maybe I’m bored.’
‘There’s a whole wedding full of people to repel,’ I point out.
‘None of them talk back quite like you.’
‘Look,’ I say, careful not to sound flustered … or like I’m in any way noticing the stupid dimple that shows when he smirks, ‘if this is your version of small talk, I think we can agree it’s not working.’
‘Feeling entitled to something doesn’t mean you deserve it.’
Silence.
‘Did you just quoteThe Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck?’
Blue Eyes shrugs.
‘You do look like someone who reads exactly one book a year and quotes it for the next six.’
‘I’ll take that,’ he says smoothly.‘You, on the other hand, look like someone who tried to get into sourdough in 2020 and never recovered.’
‘Joke’s on you.I skipped sourdough and went straight to wine.’
He tilts his head, examining me.‘You do strike me as someone who rotates between wine, work and scrolling through Tinder bios like you’re studying for an exam you already failed.’
I open my mouth, then close it again.
He smiles, satisfied, and continues.‘No pottery classes, no rollerblading, not even some niche obsession with true crime podcasts.’
‘Wow,’ I say, genuinely impressed at how accurate that was.
Jamie, one.Blue Eyes, one.
He swats a passing fly.‘I’ve met salads with more personality.’
‘You talk to your food?That tracks.’
He laughs, low and dark.‘Do you rehearse these insults before you fall asleep?’
The door to room seven bangs open and another beautiful man walks out.He sees Blue Eyes talking to me and smiles.‘Luke, you coming or what?’
So that’s his name.
Luke stands, brushing the invisible dust off his jeans, then grins when he finally eyes what I’m wearing.‘I’ll see you around B1.’
I watch him go – not because I’m interested, but because I’m still mentally cataloguing all the ways I’ll destroy him later.
But for a brief, traitorous moment, I imagine being beside him in a ute, windows down, the hot wind in my hair, his thumb grazing the back of my hand as we drive into a sunset that smells of sunburn and roadkill.
