Page 46 of Serving Bunt

“Solid 8.5,” I admitted. “But I’m not interested.”

She arched a brow. “Does that have anything to do with a certain freckle-faced hottie at the bar?”

I blinked.

“What makes you say that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mila said, circling my back and dragging her fingers across my chest as she went. “Could be the fact that you’ve been eye-fucking him for the last hour. Or maybe the way that he tightens up and then immediately relaxes whenever you get within three feet of each other.”

My gaze drifted to the bar before I could stop myself and immediately landed on the freckle-faced hottie in question.

Matty Miller was about as un-slutty as it got, but that didn’t make him any less hot. He was leaning against the scarred wood, nursing a whiskey while chatting with James Jarrett. His simple heather-gray shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and clung to the cut of his biceps and pecs. His hair was slightly mussed from the heat of the bar, and that faint flush on his cheeks made the freckles across his nose stand out even more.

It was effortlessly slutty. The rom-com hero who didn’t realize just how hot he was slutty.

Mila followed my stare and let out a low, delighted whistle. “And there it is. The real reason Mr. 8.5 doesn’t stand a chance.”

There was no point denying it.

“I’m suddenly feeling a little parched,” she added. “Feel like grabbing me a drink?”

Laughter shook my shoulders. “Sure.”

“One panty dropper, please.”

Then, she physically shooed me with both hands.

I laughed and headed toward the bar, weaving my way through the crowd. It took a few minutes, mostly because of the bachelorette party in matching “Future Mrs. Something” sashes taking up half the floor, but eventually, I broke through the throng.

Matty’s head was tipped back in laughter at something James said, a bright, genuine smile lighting up his whole face. My chest tightened with a warm rush of affection . . . followed immediately by a sharp stab of jealousy.

I wanted to be the one making him laugh like that.

“Two panty droppers, please,” I told the bartender, sliding onto the barstool between Matty and James. “Anybody else?”

James’s lips twisted in disgust. “I’m more of sex on the beach kind of guy.”

“Too sandy. Alabama?”

Matty grinned. “What’s in it?”

I shrugged. “Vodka, juice . . . desire?”

“Desire?” he deadpanned.

“Sí. Like love, but with lower standards.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

I nodded. “The best things usually are.”

Matty snorted softly, shaking his head, but not before a faint flush crept across his cheeks. It started high on his cheekbones and disappeared beneath the freckles scattered across his nose.

Ah, there he is.

God, I loved making him blush.

“Jesus Christ.” James groaned, pointing toward the dance floor. We all turned just in time to see Colt nearly clothesline the bride-to-be. “How does someone have that little control over their own limbs?”