Looks like this?
Damn. Talk about a waste of a gorgeous face.
“Hi,” I answer, cooler now. He’s got his hand outstretched to shake mine, so I reluctantly take it. “I’m Lizzie.”
His grip is cool and firm, but the touch of his palm against mine makes something prickle in the back of my skull. I look at him again, harder. There’s something familiar about him, a sneaking suspicion that tells me that somehow, somewhere, we’ve met before . . .
Holy shit!
It all comes flooding back to me. Whiskey and cold winter air, and the shrieks of New Year’s Eve. I know this guy.
Intimately.
“Good to meet you,” he says, his face friendly but impassive, his tone so nonchalant that he sounds almost bored. I stare at him incredulously, my mouth falling open slightly. Was my face so completely unmemorable? Or the rest of me, for that matter?
Oh my god, I can’t fucking believe it. I look at him in disbelief, my throat suddenly tight and hot.
He doesn’t even remember me.
He doesn’t remember the fact that the last time I saw the man standing in front of me and calling himself Jake Weston, he was passing out . . .
With his face buried between my legs.