Page 44 of On the Breakaway

Her impulsiveness must be contagious.

As soon as he’s gone, she finally looks at me. I brace for the usual glare followed by a sarcastic comment. Surely, there is some sort of insult or variation of go to hell resting on the tip of her tongue.

But when her unfocused eyes meet mine, her entire face lights up, a smile spreading ear to ear. It’s bright and unrestrained.

“Hi, Grayson,” she says happily, like we’re old friends instead of the enemies she forces us to be. Her hand wraps around my wrist, and the heat of her skin does unholy things to my mind. As if that isn’t torturous enough, she pulls me closer and yells over the music. “Dance with me.”

10

Grayson

For a second, I stare at her.

Because she’s smiling at me. Not the sharp little smirk she usually wears right before calling me irritating or arrogant. Not the look she gets when we’re verbally sparring while she decides how hard she wants to swing. It’s almost as if she’s genuinely happy to see me standing here.

It catches me so off guard that I almost forget about the guy I just threatened to pummel and the fact that she’s drunk enough to sway where she stands.

Her fingers tighten around me, trying to tug me deeper into the crowd while colored lights flash across her face and curls.

“You’re hammered,” I tell her.

She gasps, her hand shooting up to her mouth dramatically. “That’s so judgmental.”

“You almost ate shit three times in thirty seconds.”

“I’m dancing.” She slurs as if that explains absolutely everything. “C’mon. Stop standing there all tall and grumpy.”

Against my better judgment, I let her pull me two steps farther onto the dance floor before my brain finally catches back up with the rest of me, and I pull her back in the opposite direction.

“Okay,” I say firmly. “New plan.”

Her brows pull together. “You hate my plan?”

“I strongly dislike your plan.”

“That’s rude.”

“You can file a complaint later.”

By the time we reach the bar, my shoulders are already tight from how hyperaware I am of every point of contact between us.

I guide her onto a stool, stepping back until I can breathe normally again. Avery scoots closer until her knee bumps against my thigh.

She blinks up at me, completely oblivious. “You smell good,” she informs me seriously.

“Chaos.” I stare down at her hand clinging to my arm.

“What?” She asks innocently.

“You can’t just grab people.”

“You grabbed me first.”

“That was because you were actively falling over.”

I order her water and fries because drunk people either need carbs or divine intervention, and I’m fresh out of miracles. The bartender shoots me a look while setting the glass down in front of her.

I slide the water toward her. “Drink.”