Who needs a relationship? Not me. I’m too young. I’d rather be free. Look what happens when people fall in love and get married?
They lie. They cheat on each other. They fight. They get divorced.
No thanks.
That’s why I always keep it light. I don’t let men intimidate me or push me into something I’m not interested in.
This guy, though? He leaves me on edge. Worse, he makes me curious, and I don’t quite understand why. Maybe it’s the intense way he’s watching me right now. Smoking is gross. I’ve never understood the appeal, but I’m kind of attracted to the way he keeps putting that cigarette in his mouth, his lips pursed the slightest bit before he pulls it away and exhales.
It’s—oh God, I can’t believe I’m thinking this—sexy.
“Why do you smoke anyway?” I ask, sounding annoyed. I clear my throat, hoping he didn’t notice.
“I only do it when I’m stressed,” he answers.
I’m frowning. “You’re stressed out right now?”
“Fuck yeah I am.” He grimaces. Scrubs a hand along his jaw. “Sorry. It’s a lot, having to deal with my dad and his new family and being at this stupid party or whatever the hell you want to call it. Wearing a Gucci suit and acting like a man for my father’s sake, when I feel like a kid playing dress up.”
Aw. This is an incredibly honest moment we’re sharing, and that was such a vulnerable thing to admit. Unable to stop myself, I go to the chair next to his and sit on the edge of the cushion, turning my body toward his.
“Would it make you feel any better if I told you that you look good in the Gucci suit?” I ask him, my voice light. A little flirty.
I’m trying to shift the mood. We don’t need to get serious right now. I don’t do serious. Not really. Serious means something, and right now I’m looking for…
Nothing. Just a little fun.
He smooths his long fingers along the jacket’s lapel, and I get the sudden image of him trailing those fingers on my skin. “I guess the Gucci suit paid off then.”
I laugh. He chuckles.
We stare.
And it doesn’t even feel uncomfortable. Not one freakin’ bit.
“I’m not supposed to like you,” I admit softly.
“Back at you.” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he faintly smiles, and I exhale softly at his confession.
“But I do,” I whisper.
He slowly leans forward, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray on the table in front of us. I didn’t even notice it, I’m so hyperfocused on him. He’s so close, he could touch my thigh. My hip.
Tony Sorrento could touch me wherever he wanted to.
“Want to get out of here?” he asks, his gravelly low voice twisting me up inside.
I’m startled by his question. “And go where?”
“I don’t know. Did you drive your car?”
I slowly shake my head.
“Me either.” His expression is pure frustration.
“We can get an Uber,” I suggest.
His lips curl into this beautiful smile that takes my breath away. “I like the way you think.”