Page 18 of Off the Grid

“Naturally.”

“Because I’m getting the feeling that you’re too shy to walk right up to them”—he raises one hand—“me . . . and tell them what you want.”

I shift on my feet and hold his stare. Normally, this isn’t my thing—being approached in a bar. But when the option is talking to him or going back to Operation Glow-Up with Gia and Isabella, I welcome the distraction.

“And you would know this how?” I ask as he shifts his weight and places his drink on the cocktail table beside him.

“Call it a hunch.”

“Are your hunches always right?” I ask.

“We’ll see.” His smile lights up his face even more. “Ask me that again in about ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?” I bark out a laugh. “That’s how long you think it’s going to take for you to convince me to tell you exactly what I want?”

“Yes.”

“You say that with absolute confidence.”

He lifts his eyebrows and nods. “And?”

“And nothing.” I shrug. “But I’m pretty sure I’m going to prove you wrong.”

The pout he gives me is more than adorable and has me wanting to cave. But before I do, he says, “I know how you can make it up to me.”

“Make what up to you?” I laugh.

“You not telling me what you want. You not being mesmerized by my confidence.” He ticks the items off on his fingers. “The fact that you’re not giving me your undivided attention.”

“I’m not?”

“Nope.”

God, his grin is a mixture of adorable and sexy, and how is that combination even possible?

“Why do you think that?”

“Because you keep looking over my shoulder at your friends wondering if you should let me keep talking to you or if you should give them the sign to come and rescue you.”

“The sign?”

“You know, the sign.” He nods. “A twirl of your hair. Your fingers crossed at your side. The predetermined thing you agreed on with your friends that tells them you need rescuing.”

“Ah. Yes. That sign.” I glance over his shoulder to where both Isabella and Gia have noticed us and are staring intently. Great. Just what I need.

Then again . . . maybe I can make them think I’ve hit it off with whoever this guy is—it’s not like it’s a hardship when he looks like he does—and get them to lay off the forcing me to date their “friends” component of their plan.

“There’s no sign. None whatsoever,” I say.

“No?”

“No.”

“Then why do they keep staring at us?” he asks, flashing them a grin and a salute of a wave before turning back to me and waiting for an answer.

“They’re just busy trying to plan my move here, my love life . . . you name it.” I roll my eyes.

“You’re moving here?” he asks.